

































































































































































































































































































































OlassJBXiL 
Book JB 1 1 f 
Copyright 

COPYRIGHT deposit. 


} 

































t 









































f 









“WHEN DII) YOU GET THAT?” HE ASKED, 
POINTING TO HER RING 







BROKEN PATHS 


It 


By Grace Keon 1 ^ 

Vr«JUL^*~ 


Author of “Just Happy," “Ruler of the Kingdom," 
"Not a Judgment—“When Love is Strong" 


Illustrations by Frank H. Spradling 



Extension Press 

180 North Wabash Ave., Chicago 

1 923 




COPYRIGHT 192 3 

By EXTENSION PRESS 


ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 

PRINTED IN Ci 9. A. 



SEP-4'23 


©C1A711749 

'VxO | 


CONTENTS 


Page 

I. The Senator Interferes. 7 

II. Cecilia Has Something to Say. 27 

III. Poor Little Cecil. 44 

IV. The Slave . 63 

V. The Chamberlins. 79 

VI. With Reservations. 94 

VII. The Man from the West. Ill 

VIII. Father Pat and Old Erin. 127 

IX. Cecilia and Mother Philippa.143 

X. Introducing Father Pat. 166 

XI. Cecilia Decides . 184 

XII. At the End of the Trail. 200 

XIII. Father Pat’s Girl. 219 

XIV. Rosary Mountain . 239 

XV. Found . 253 

XVI. The Great West. 273 



















LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 

Page 

“When did you get that?” he asked, pointing 

to her ring. Frontispiece 

“I don’t want to seem rude, but I must remind 

you that this is my affair”. 12 

Never had Malcolm Travers been treated in 

this fashion . 60 

“I did not know this until Colin told me”. 106 

Once more Mother Philippa understood. 150 

Looking up at him was “the child with his 

mother’s eyes”. 216 

She would call this spot Rosary Mountain.... 246 

So Cecil stood, the revolver between her fingers. 256 








Chapter I 

THE SENATOR INTERFERES 

T he lad in brass buttons and livery jumped to 
his feet when Senator Hayden came in. Hay¬ 
den was very popular with the youngsters at the 
Metropole. 

“I’m not going to stay a second. Bob,” said the 
stately old gentleman. ‘‘I’m looking for Mr. Travers.” 

‘‘Oh, he’s inside, sir. He’s been inside all 
evening.” 

‘‘Thank you, Bob. All right, then; take these.” 
He handed over his hat and cane, brushed an imag¬ 
inary speck from an immaculate coat-sleeve, and 
sauntered into the big, luxurious living-room that was 
the Metropole’s chief attraction, and which helped 
to make this fashionable club a near-home. A chorus 
of greetings arose—evidently Senator Hayden’s pop¬ 
ularity extended farther than the foyer. He nodded 
and smiled cheerfully, his gray eyes roving from one 
face to the other. In the center of the room a com¬ 
fortable chair had been drawn close to a table, and 
above the padded back rose a sleek black head, news¬ 
paper held high above it. Senator Hayden con¬ 
tinued his pleasant progress until he stood behind 
the chair, but Malcolm Travers was too deeply 


7 


8 


BROKEN PATHS 


engrossed in his paper to notice him. So the Sen¬ 
ator walked around and tapped him on the arm. 

“Greetings, Malcolm!” he said. He sat on the 
edge of the table, one leg swinging, and when Mal¬ 
colm would have risen to push a chair nearer, he 
shook his head. “Never mind—if you can give me 
just five minutes—” 

“I can give you fifteen,” said Malcolm Travers, 
genially. “I have an appointment with Kenneth 
Lister in just twenty. Until then I am absolutely 
at your service.” 

The tone was courteous, but the Senator frowned. 

“I’ve warned you about Kenneth Lister, Malcolm,” 
he said. “A fellow to let alone.” 

Lifted eyebrows and a half smile greeted this 
remark. 

“Now, now,” he said soothingly. “Dost realize 
little Malcolm has grown up?” 

“Unfortunately. If he weren’t—” 

“Little Malcolm would get some trap-oil, eh?” 

“Early and often, son.” 

“Sorry that you can’t be accommodated, Senator! 
But it is a way that children have, alas! Ken Lister 
can’t hurt me. I think Ken Lister’s friends are 
rather deploring my influence over him. Yes,” with 
a grin. “I bet you haven’t looked at it like that 
have you? Poor little Kenny Lister!” 


BROKEN PATHS 


9 


The Senator stared at him a moment, lips tightly 
closed, eyes scrutinizing. 

“We won’t discuss it any more. You know 
Lister is in bad odor. I wouldn’t care, if I were 
in your shoes, to have my name associated with his. 
However, it’s your affair—I didn’t come to discuss 
Lister. I have something else on my mind.’’ 

“So!” Malcolm Travers reached down into his 
pocket and brought out a cigar case, holding it open, 
suggestively. “Have one?” 

“No,” said the Senator, gruffly, for he, too, was 
devoted to the weed. “I’ve gone the limit today.” 

“Ah! But you are right, at that. At your age 
one can’t be too careful.” 

“At my age you’ll be smoking—but not cigars,” 
said the Senator, with some asperity. 

“Whew!” The young man struck a match and 
puffed deeply. “You certainly have something on 
your mind!” He half closed his dark eyes. “Why 
not get it out and off, dear friend?” 

Again that sharp glance from the older man. 

“Since when have you and Joyce agreed to dis- 
v» 

agree ? 

Malcolm Travers smoked quietly. Then: 

“Have you heard that—non??” 

“I heard it yesterday. Is it true?” 

“Yes, it’s true. Joyce and I have found out that 


10 


BROKEN PATHS 


we are incompatible, and have separated by mutual 
consent.” 

“When?” 

“Three months ago.” 

“Malcolm!” 

Malcolm Travers shrugged his shoulders. 

“What’s the use, Senator? I tell you Joyce made 
up her mind—at last!—that the only heir of the 
house of Travers was an unsatisfactory matrimonial 
prospect.” 

“It looks bad—you’ve been engaged to be mar¬ 
ried for three years.” 

“Correct, Senator.” 

“You would have been married long ago only 
for that cursed cat of an Aunt Harriet. I know, 
I know! She ruined Joyce’s mother’s life—now she 
is ruining the girl’s, too. I hoped you would stick 
it out, Malcolm.” 

Malcolm laughed—heartily enough. 

“I was summarily dismissed,” he said, “if that will 
give you any comfort in your present tribulations.” 
'But there’s worse.” 

I have no doubt. There’s always worse. What’s 
the rest of it?” 

‘You’re engaged to Cecilia Emory.” 

‘Again correct!” 

‘Does Cecilia know about Joyce?” 

‘Senator, my dear, dear friend, I haven’t asked 
her!” 






tr 


«< 




(<< 



BROKEN PATHS II 

“Well, I’m going to.” 

The deuce you are!” The young man’s eyes 
opened wide, and he sat up straight in his chair. 

Say, look here, you certainly have your 
nerve—” 

“Yes, r Ve my nerve,” said the Senator imperturb¬ 
ably, “and I’ve got some idea of the fitness of things, 
too. For heaven’s sake, Malcolm, think a bit before 
you cut into this. Cecilia Emory is about as fit to 
be your wife as an ant is fitted to be the wife of a 
butterfly. And with such a handicap as Joyce, too!” 

“Now that’s a darned fine simile! A butterfly 
and an ant make a good combination!” 

“Perhaps not so good when I give the little ant an 
idea of what’s before her—as well as what’s behind 

her!” 

“I don’t want to be rude. Senator, really I don’t,” 
said the young man, “but I must remind you that this 
is my affair—my affair. The only thing that excuses 
you is your interest in my unworthy self. For surely 
you are not interested in Miss Emory?” 

“I know the Emorys well—and little Cecil better,” 
said Senator Hayden, passing over the obvious sar¬ 
casm, “and I can’t say I have any use for the rest of 
the family. I positively dislike that sour cub of a 
brother. Cecilia isn’t your style, Malcolm. You’re 
good enough for—well, for Joyce. She knows all 



12 


BROKEN PATHS 


<<i 




about you, and will make allowances. You under¬ 
stand?” 

“I take it,” said Malcolm Travers, with a serene 
smile, “that if Senator Hayden had a daughter, the 
head of the house of Travers need not come a-knock- 
ing at the door.” 

‘Rest assured of that. And I’d tell her why, too.” 

‘Don’t let your championship of—or your inter¬ 
ference with—the affairs of the future Mrs. Malcolm 
Travers carry you too far. Senator.” The young 
man’s eyes blazed suddenly, and the other smiled. 

“Pouf!” he said, with fine disdain. “I’d cane you 
before I’d quarrel with you, Malcolm. Good gra¬ 
cious, boy, what’s come over you, mixing up with the 
Emorys? I might have known Chamberlin wouldn’t 
hesitate at anything, and it’s the Chamberlins who 
have made this possible. Paul is playing you finely— 
the whole lot of you—and why? Because he needs 
Tom Emory’s money.” 

“So do I, Senator, so do I!” said the young man, 
and laughed. 

“You’ re losing whatever sense of decency you 
possessed,” said the Senator in disgust. “And for 
what? Money? Get out and earn it, if what your 
father left you isn’t enough. I’ll lend you all you 
need if you want more to start, and your brains and 
initiative will do the rest. It is all coming to you 
when I die, anyhow, Malcolm,” he added, gravely. 



I DON’T WANT TO SEEM RUDE. BUT I MUST REMIND YOU 
THAT THIS IS MY AFFAIR” 











BROKEN PATHS 


13 


“I have no desire. Senator, to step into a very 
healthy man’s shoes,” the young man said. “And, if 
you’ll believe me, it isn’t all Tom Emory’s money. 
He’ s in a dandy scheme with Chamberlin and there’s 
an agreement between Colin and myself that will sort 
of keep the money in the family. You won’t have to 
complain of my inaction in a very short while—and 
certainly,” he went on, in a softer tone, for the 
Senator’s kind words had mollified his sudden rush 
of anger, “I’d never want to look forward to your 
demise.” 

Quick to note the change of manner the Senator 
bent nearer. 

“Boy,” he said “go to it—but leave Cecil out of 
it. Your father was the best friend I ever had. Do 
you remember the day you came home from college 
and stood beside his coffin? A young enthusiast, 
brawny of limb and lean of jaw, with a boy’s eyes 
and a boy’s soul, too. I’ve been sorry to see you Ibse 
the brightness of both, Malcolm. That’s why I won’t 
quarrel with you.” 

Malcolm Travers sat back in his chair asnd sighed. 

“I wish I could be as unsophisticated at my age 
as you seem to be at yours.” His voice was quite 
unmoved. “There are few of you left, and the rest 
of us might almost thank Providence for it. Do you 
know what you are talking about, anyhow?” 

“Yes—I do. You’ve been engaged to marry Joyce 


14 


BROKEN PATHS 


Moore. You love her and she loves you. And yester¬ 
day I heard it’s broken off—and today I am told of 
your affair with Cecilia Emory. That’s what I am 
talking about.” 

“Urn...and add to that the Emorys have gone 
stark, staring mad over the ‘alliance’ as they choose 
to call it; even that sour cub, as you so politely 
designate a not altogether disagreeable member of my 
future family. The mother—the father—” 

“Don’t,” said Senator Hayden, and this time 
indeed the note in his voice made his hearer wince. 
“The mother! The father! Oh, delight! And— 
Cecilia?” 

And now Malcolm Travers was really angry. 

“Say. . .what do you mean?” 

“Don’t you know they’re pushing her into this, 
blindfolded?” 

“She told you so—poor little Cecilia?” 

“No.” 

“Then what? Is there some one else interested in 
your poor little Cecilia?” His hands clenched on 
the arms of the chair and his eyes snapped. 

“I wish I could truthfully say yes,” said the 
Senator. “I can’t. Haven’t you eyes in your head? 
What sport is there in hunting a scared rabbit?” 

“Senator Hayden, I warn you—and for the last 
time: mind your own business!” 


BROKEN PATHS 15 

“Cecilia Emory is my business. I’ve known her 
all her life. I’ve talked to you fair and square, for 
your good and hers. You’re spoiling your future— 
loving one girl and marrying another. You are going 
to make a sweet little creature unhappy. Cecilia 
Emory and the Chamberlins!” He laughed. “I’ve 
had my say to you, and I’m satisfied. Now I’ll have 
my say to her father and mother and herself, if 
necessary. I’m going to act the part of a friend, 
whether you like it or not.” 

“On the principle that this blow hurts me more 
than it can you! Well, go ahead! When the invita¬ 
tion list is made out I’ll see that your name heads it— 
because of your tender interest.” 

“Thank you, Malcolm. I shall appreciate that.” 
He stood up, a slender, immaculate figure, erect of 
bearing as a young man, his keen eyes under their 
heavy brows as clear as a boy’s. “So you’re going 
into business with old Tom Emory? Excellent! 
That would have pleased your father, Malcolm.” 

“ ‘An honest man’s the noblest work of God,’ 
Senator.” 

“So he is! And God must be shocked at the 
degradation of some of His handiwork. However, 
you may prove useful. . . after training.” 

Malcolm Travers laughed. 

“Dear Senator, I’m not for use. They are buy¬ 
ing me for an ornament,” he said, and the serenity 



16 


BROKEN PATHS 


of his tone was undisturbed. “And now we’ll drop 
the subject, please? Lister hovers in the background.” 

'Tm going.” The Senator turned. “Allow me to 
wish you a very good night.” He moved on as 
Kenneth Lister approached, saluting Malcolm jovi¬ 
ally. 

“What have you been feeding the benevolent old 
gentleman, Malcolm?” asked he. “He gave me a 
look that withered my soul.” 

“Never mind the Senator, Ken,” said Travers, 
easily. 

“Baiting you again eh?” 

“I said never mind* the Senator, Ken.” 

“Oh, all right. Apologize!” 

“Hang that fellow!” muttered the Senator, under 
his trim gray mustache, as he walked the length of 
the room, being greeted and returning greetings as 
he went. “I’d be much better off if I washed my 
hands of him. Kenneth Lister! Puppy! That associa¬ 
tion will do absolutely no good. Joyce ought to— 
Joyce! Yes. . .Joyce. . .” His eyebrows met. “Play¬ 
ing at life. .. and to bring little Cecil Emory into 
it! Little Cecil, of all people! Confound Paul 
Chamberlin and his ambitions and his whole crowd!” 

Bob was waiting with hat and gloves and cane— 
for which service Senator Hayden made fair ex¬ 
change; then he was off and down the street, a man 


BROKEN PATHS 


17 


to attract attention anywhere. But his thoughts were 
racing. 

No business of his? Of course it wasn’t. That was 
where the harm lay—nothing was anyone’s business 
in this world. A case now of exchange and barter, 
and Cecilia stood about as much show as a canary. 
He had indeed known the Emorys a long while. 
Whatever had happened, Malcolm and Joyce were 
out, and Travers was giving his name and pedigree 
and standing in that circle within the circle—for 
whose good? Cecil’s? Cecil would never fit. Tom 
Emory’s? All Tom Emory’s money could never 
buy his way in. Mrs. Emory... ah, there it was! 
Elizabeth Garvan Emory! What a pity the thing 
couldn’t be arranged without Cecil. Oh, he knew! 
The door had been opened. . .it still stood open. 
Cecil’s marriage would mean that it was closed 
. . . and bolted with Cecil’s family on the coveted 
inside. 

“Nevertheless,” thought the Senator, again, with 
the courage that was his habit, “I’ve had my word 
with Travers, and I’ll have it with the Emorys.” His 
mouth set grimly. “Better not take time to think it 
over—better not.” He might begin to argue against 
himself. . .Elizabeth Garvan Emory! He recalled 
the name, signed to a recent dinner invitation in a 
sprawling hand... on irreproachable paper. . . And he 
remembered Bessie Garvan very well. He had known 
her and Tom many years ago. . .and he had often 



18 


BROKEN PATHS 


commended the rare prize Tom had won—an ambi¬ 
tious wife! A woman who stood behind her husband 
in everything. . . made his interests hers. . . Much, if 
not all, of Tom Emory’s rise in the world could be 
credited to Bessie Garvan. And she had not changed 
—only in name! Elizabeth Garvan Emory! 

He became aware just then that somebody—a 
young man—was walking abreast of him. He looked 
around casually, and recognized him. 

“How do you do, Colin)’’ His mouth puckered. 
Colin Emory had that effect on him. 

“Very well. Senator. Just walking, or going to 
the house?’’ 

“Both. . .if your father and mother are at home.” 

“I think they are. At least I haven’t heard that 
there’s anything on for tonight.” He drew a little 
nearer until they were side by side. There was no 
love lost on the young man’s part, either, but he was 
not unmindful of the fact that it gave one a certain 
standing to be seen with Senator Douglas Hayden. 

“How is Cecilia?” asked the older man. 

“Well enough, I fancy.” He said “fawncy” and 
the Senator could have choked him. “I haven’t seen 
much of her lately. Too much excitement in the air.” 

“Um. . .yes?” The Senator was mildly interested. 
“Anything going on?” 

“Why.. .of course you’ve heard?” 


BROKEN PATHS 


19 


“Oh, some one said something about Cecilia and 
Malcolm Travers. All nonsense, of course. People 
are fond of talking.” 

“This isn’t talk. . .it’s truth.” 

“Ah? Just so!” A bit of the sourness crept like 
acid into the Senator’s voice. “The marriage will 
take place—when?” 

“That hasn’t been decided, but I suppose the date 
will be set within the next few days. Cecil, like all 
girls, doesn’t want to be hurried-” 

“Um. . .well, he’s an expensive acquisition. But I 
guess your father can afford it.” 

The grim sarcasm was not lost on Colin Emory. 
He colored. If, a moment since, the Senator could 
have choked him, he now wanted very much to choke 
the Senator. 

“Cecil has had something to do with it, too,” he 
answered briefly. 

“Precious little,” said the Senator disagreeably. 

“Seen Travers?” asked Colin. 

“Yes. This evening.” 

Colin’s eyebrows met in an unmistakable frown, 
and there was no further word spoken until they 
reached the Emory house, a substantial building over¬ 
looking the Park. 

Young Emory opened the door, and ushered the 
Senator into a handsomely furnished living-room. 




20 


BROKEN PATHS 


Behind it was the library, perfectly equipped, and 
the doors, open between, gave a splendid view of high 
ceilings and wide arches, with a shimmer of green 
growing things in the rear. A slightly sardonic smile 
touched the Senator’s mouth. He had never rightly 
looked at the Emory setting before but the contrast 
between the old and the new was strong on him at 
the present moment. 

He was not long alone, however. A tall and 
graceful woman came in almost immediately. The 
likeness between herself and her son was very 
apparent. Her hair was coal-black, her eyes large 
and dark, like his, the nose prominent and well¬ 
shaped, the lips firm, with a slight cleft to the chin, 
without which the whole face would have been very 
severe. 

“Senator Hayden! Why, I’m delighted to see 
you!’’ she exclaimed. There was unmistakable 
pleasure in her tones as she held out her hand, which 
he shook warmly. A handsome woman, a creditable 
woman, he thought, a dominant woman, clever as the 
deuce... as unlike Cecilia as the day is unlike night. 
And Senator Hayden thought Cecilia Emory perfec¬ 
tion. 

“I’ve come to have a chat with you—with both 
of you,’* he said. “Where’s Tom?** 

“Tom? In his room, I am certain.” She beamed. 
“I’ll send for him.” She touched a bell and a maid 


BROKEN PATHS 


21 


appeared. “Ask Mr. Emory to come down an in¬ 
stant. Senator Hayden is calling.” 

“A nice, quiet, comfortable chat between three 
mature people, with no nonsense and no frills,” 
continued the gray-haired gentleman. “And,” he 
added, as an afterthought, “I’ve heard of the engage¬ 
ment.” 

Something like relief flashed over the lady’s face. 

“Oh! So Malcolm has told you? Well, I suppose 
we must forgive him—” 

“How does Cecil take it?” he interrupted. 

“Cecil, dear child! How oddly you said that. 
Senator Hayden!” She smiled. “We are dining 
alone this evening. Are you free, and dare I invite 

you? You can see for yourself how Cecil is taking 

•. »* 
it. 

He gave a deprecating glance at his sleeve, and 
her hand went up, protesting. 

“We shall not mind—you are too old a friend to 
stand on ceremony—” 

“No, thank you. Really, you are too good. But 
I have an engagement.” 

“That is unfortunate for the Emorys.” She 
laughed gaily. Senator Hayden marveled at her. 
She was wonderful. Her manner was correct, her 
poise perfect. Bessie Garvan! Admiration stirred 
him anew. Why, he had never met such a woman. 


22 


BROKEN PATHS 


never! If only poor little Cecilia were more like her 
mother the marriage might not seem so ghastly. 
And then Thomas Emory entered. 

He was not quite as tall as his wife, and very 
much stouter, sandy of hair, and with a pair of small 
greenish-gray eyes, very keen and sharp behind thick 
glasses, sandy brows and lashes and a sandy beard, 
struggling now in the making of a dignified Van 
Dyke; in general appearance, a prosperous business 
man. Clever, too, but impulsive and quick. Mrs. 
Emory supplied the needed caution. In a pleasant 
voice, which a touch of brogue made pleasanter, he 
greeted the visitor, advancing with hand outstretched, 
and Senator Hayden met him half-way. 

“Our friend has heard of Cecil’s engagement— 
naturally Malcolm would tell him first—and has, I 
presume, dropped in to present his felicitations. It is 
awfully kind of you,” she added, with a laughing 
glance of her dark eyes. 

Senator Hayden looked at Tom Emory. He, too, 
had changed. Tremendously. Well, with a wife 
like Elizabeth Garvan Emory, old Tom might even 
be induced to expatriate himself. . .no, he’d take that 
back! That was one thing Tom Emory would never 
do—buy a title. 

“I am sorry to disappoint you,” he said, calmly, 
“but I am not here on any errand of felicitation! I 
came, rather, to see if it could possibly be true, and 


BROKEN PATHS 23 

I’d like to talk to Cecil herself about it. Where is 
she?” 

4 Cecil?” Mrs. Emory’s slender white fingers curled 
about the top of the chair, and she gave the Senator 
an odd glance. He was a queer man—had done 
queer things. Tom Emory looked at him also, but 
his face was absolutely blank. No one could tell 
what Tom Emory’s thoughts were, for all his expres¬ 
sion lay in his small eyes, and the thick glasses con¬ 
cealed them. “I suppose—as usual—she is resting in 
her room, before dinner. And I’m sorry, but we don’t 
quite understand, Senator Hayden.” 

“Well, you will,” he said. 

“Has Mr. Travers sent you? I thought we had 
arranged—” 

Senator Hayden straightened proudly. 

“I don’t know what your arrangements are with 
Malcolm Travers,” he said. “I hope you are not 
paying for him according to his own valuation, or 
you’ll wreck your fortune. Sit down, Tom—and 
you, too, Elizabeth.” And when they were seated 
he continued in softer tones. “Now let’s all get off 
our high horses and come to level ground. I’m talk¬ 
ing straight from the shoulder—to both of you. And 
I’d like to see less of Thomas Emory, millionaire, and 
a little more of good old Tom Emory, truck-and- 
longshoreman, who helped send me to Washington 
twenty-eight years ago!” 


24 


BROKEN PATHS 


“Senator Hayden! For Heaven’s sake!” Mrs. 
Emory glanced about her apprehensively. 

“Oh, I know! I suppose we’re safe here, or I 
wouldn’t talk, and you two are well aware I’m not 
the man to talk anywhere else. You know what you 
were before that little cogwheel invention of yours, 
Tom, made your fortune. I don’t want to remind 
you that it was my belief and my backing that started 
things in earnest—now, never mind! The credit is 
yours. I’m taking none at all—I considered it then— 
and now—a privilege. And I also exact another 
privilege, for while you deserve credit, let me say 
right here you’ve made an insufferable prig of Colin. 

. . .And there’s Cecilia.*’ 

The two were silent, staring at him. 

“Little Cecilia,” he added, in a softer tone. “There 
isn’t a thing in the world can spoil her but this mar¬ 
riage. It will ruin her whole life. And that’s what 
I’ve come here to say.” 

“Then you’ll pardon me for telling you that you 
are interfering unwarrantably,” said Mrs. Emory, with 
flashing eyes. “What we do with our own is our own 
business.” 

“That’s true. What you do with your own! Why 
don’t you try to settle Colin’s life affairs for him?” 

Mrs. Emory made an inarticulate sound in her 
throat. 

“Because he wouldn’t let you,” said Senator Hay- 


BROKEN PATHS 


25 


den coldly. “But he, and both of you, are willing 
to use Cecil as a stepping-stone to the social success 
you now crave. And it’s all such a lot of—such a 
lot of,’’ he swallowed hard, and it did not take much 

imagination to supply the adjective, “-nonsense,” 

he finished. 

Mrs. Emory laughed softly. 

“You speak as if we were marrying Cecil to 
some monster,” she said. 

“Do I?” asked Senator Hayden. 

“Don’t you know that she is very much in love 
with Malcolm Travers? And very happy in the 
anticipation of a brilliant wedding? Do you dream. 
Senator Hayden,” she went on, with a flash of her 
white teeth, “that we would force our little girl into 
anything repulsive to her?” 

“Rot!” said Senator Hayden. “Doesn’t your com¬ 
mon sense tell you that Cecil will never be happy in 
such a loveless marriage? You know all about Joyce 
Moore.” 

A mask seemed to shut down over Mrs. Emory’s 
face. 

“Joyce Moore?” she echoed. “What about— 
Joyce Moore?” 

“Malcolm Travers has been engaged to her for 
three years. He has broken with her to enter into 
another compact with Cecil. Joyce is of his own 
world, of his own kind. She loves him. He loves 



26 


BROKEN PATHS 


her as much as he is capable of loving. What then? 
Cecil deserves better than this!” 

Mrs. Emory’s eyes met his. They were hard as 
flint. 

“Malcolm implied that he had a few enemies,” 
she remarked. 

The Senator rose. 

“My errand is done” he said. “I have warned 
you. If Cecil doesn’t love him, she’s going to have 
trouble. If she does love him, she’s going to have 
misery. I know Malcolm. Go ahead. Marry Cecil 
to him—I wish you joy of your son-in-law.” 

And without waiting for either of them to reply, 
he left the room and the house. 


Chapter II 

CECILIA HAS SOMETHING TO SAY 

PHE Emory family met that night after dinner. 

*■* Mrs. Emory, though her husband had acquired his 
wealth within the last two decades, had learned by 
heart the lesson of luxurious simplicity. She was plainly 
attired in black, a color she affected, with a touch 
of vivid scarlet by way of contrast, and this hint of 
color seemed to go well with her dead-white skin and 
splendid eyes. She had a slender, almost girlish figure 
and there was not a thread of gray in her raven hair. 
Though she was tall, her handsome son Colin towered 
a head above her. Well-built, well-groomed, he was 
a young man hard to classify. If he had any heart 
he never showed it. Sentiment he detested. He loved 
all the good things of life, and was more than inter¬ 
ested in the niceties that made it a comfortable thing. 
He was a fair sportsman, hunted, kept a yacht, and 
was now trying to interest his father in blooded horses. 

Unfortunately, as so often happens in acquiring 
money, the Emorys had lost the simplicity of the 
Faith. They were still Catholics, in a half-hearted 
way. They did not deny their religion, but with the 
exception of Cecilia, the only daughter, and convent- 
bred, they did not openly profess it. To Colin, 

27 


28 


BROKEN PATHS 


religious practices were a bore. Tom Emory had 
grown careless a few years following his coming to 
America. Elizabeth Emory went to mass occasion¬ 
ally and made every possible excuse not to go. When 
her children were young they served. Now it was 
the weather or indisposition or fear of indisposition. 
She was more than generous in subscriptions to all 
good works, but not at all generous when it came 
to personal inconvenience. Had it been possible to 
buy a substitute she would gladly have paid the price. 
For, after all, a baptized Catholic may forget his 
religion—and banish all thought of it—but there are 
hours when conscience pricks. And these pricks surely 
and certainly annoyed Mrs. Thomas Emory. Her 
husband had few such qualms, she thought—men 
take things so much easier than women. And Colin? 
Well, Colin was the brilliant graduate of a non- 
Catholic University, and he discoursed on all religions 
with the air of a sage and the vanity of a young man 
of his type who desires above all things that his world 
shall rate him well. “Catholics? Oh, yes, we are 
Catholics! But I think you will find us very liberal 
in our views! There is so much good in every 
religion!” 

Step by step the Emory family had moved up in 
the scale, as Senator Hayden could testify. But it 
was Tom Emory’s connection with Paul Chamberlin 
that had at last opened the magic door of Mrs. 
Emory’s secret ambition, and it was when stepping 


BROKEN PATHS 


29 


over the threshold that the Emory family had 
encountered Malcolm Travers. Tom Emory met him 
first in a business way—then socially. The blase 
young man’s evident interest in Cecilia as a new type, 
had sent a faint thrill through the mother’s breast. 
And immediately Elizabeth Garvan Emory began to 
plan—that Elizabeth Garvan Emory whom Senator 
Hayden anathematized. With Cecilia married to this 
man there was no height to which she might not 
aspire. Even Tom Emory was enthused, seeing him¬ 
self the focus of such business dealings as he had not 
yet had opportunity to handle! 

As for Colin he had at once and almost absurdly 
fallen in love with Muriel Carter, who was Mrs. 
Paul Chamberlin’s sister. He was not at all averse 
to any plans that meant future prestige, and he real¬ 
ized that if Cecilia married Malcolm Travers his 
position with Muriel Carter would be assured. 

The Emorys were neither vulgar nor pretentious, 
though thus rooted in ambition. The mother had seen 
to that, and her serene success had given them con¬ 
fidence, always with that one exception—Cecilia. 
Unfortunately, decided those who met the girl, she 
was stupid. Fortunately, her mother said, with con¬ 
fidence, she was beautiful. Not pretty, not fascinat¬ 
ing, but beautiful with a child’s fresh loveliness though 
she was in her twenty-second year. It was her appeal¬ 
ing, childish beauty that had made Senator Hayden 
her slave. She had been well educated, but with eyes 


30 BROKEN PATHS 

like purple violets and hair the rare and gleaming 
gold that is seldom seen save on a baby’s head, who 
cared what that head contained? No one had ever 
tried to find out, and trained as she had been Cecilia 
Emory went the even tenor of her wa>, gentle, agree¬ 
able, anxious to please those she loved and never 
finding it necessary even to contradict her proud and 
ambitious mother. She had tried it several times after 
her homecoming, but the results had frightened her. 
In the matter of her engagement to Malcolm Travers, 
she had seen no objection to his proposal. He was 
handsome, clever. Why marry him? There were four 
reasons why she should, her father’s, her mother’s, her 
brother’s approval—and the young man’s own pref¬ 
erence for her. 

Unfortunately, neither Cecilia nor her parents 
realized that Life had not bloomed for the girl. She 
was like a bud tightly enclosed in its sheath of green, 
protected and uncaring. Of the two, Malcolm Travers 
was really more interested in the mother. She had 
brains, he told himself, and it would be a good game 
to stand behind her as she began the last ascent of 
her journey to the top. He knew quite well all she 
would have to endure, but in his conversation with 
her after he had spoken of his regard for Cecilia, 
he caught more than a glimpse of the iron in her 
makeup. It pleased him mightily. 

Father, mother and brother were seated at the 
table when Cecilia entered the dining-room, moving 


BROKEN PATHS 


31 


with quiet step and taking her accustomed place. She 
came and went like that, unobtrusively, gently, brief 
of speech, unassuming, intensely reserved. Even now 
she said nothing, though she had not seen them, with 
the exception of her mother, all that day. When she 
first came back from college she had kissed them on 
entering, but she soon found out that that evidence 
of affection embarrassed them, and so it ceased. She 
was of medium height, and had evidently inherited 
her fairness from her father’s side of the house, as 
Colin had inherited his mother’s dark eyes and hair. 
To the Emory family their daughter was an asset, in 
so far as her beauty made friends for them, but each 
and every one of them looked upon her as a nonentity, 
colorless, vague, pliant, yielding. And Elizabeth 
Emory, strong as steel, wondered what Malcolm 
Travers saw in this softly-spoken girl of hers, for all 
her loveliness. 

Now, before beginning her meal, she quietly made 
the Sign of the Cross. It was Senator Hayden who 
had insisted, in spite of the fact that he was not a 
Catholic, that Cecilia should be sent to the Ursulines. 
Not for any religious reason did Mrs. Emory consent 
to this, but she desired, then, to please the Senator 
more than anything else, for she had her foot on the 
first rung of the ladder and he could help her up. 
Cecilia had taken few honors, but she was well 
grounded in the essentials, had passed creditably 
enough and was especially well informed in the 


32 


BROKEN PATHS 


doctrines and practices of the Catholic Church. When 
she had returned a year previous—a girl of twenty- 
one—Mrs. Emory commented on the practice of 
beginning and ending each meal with the sign of sal¬ 
vation. 

“Better get out of the habit, Cecil/* she advised. 
“If you want to say grace, say it to yourself quietly. 
It is all right when we are here alone, but it might 
be embarrassing at another table.” Later, she remon¬ 
strated again, and sharply. It had happened—at 
another table. Excellent people, too, that the Emorys 
were eager to propitiate. 

“It looks so—vulgar,” said Mrs. Emory; “like a 
parade of one’s religion.” 

The large violet eyes met hers deprecatingly. 


“It’s such a habit. Mother,” she said. “I’ve been 
so accustomed to it.” 


Mrs. Emory sighed. 

“Don’t be stupid, Cecil!” This was Colin’s con¬ 
tribution, but Cecil only raised her shoulders. 

And again the mother spoke, and several times 
thereafter. But Cecilia smiled, faintly, a shadow over 
her eyes. Her mother could decide the colors she 
should wear, even the man she should marry, but in 
this —It would, perhaps, have astonished Mrs. Emory 
had she realized that this habit was Cecilia’s act of 
faith in herself—the link that bound her to the girl 
she desired to be, rather than the girl her mother 


BROKEN PATHS 


33 


wished to make of her. Presently the household 
became accustomed to this simple grace before and 
after meals, though occasionally, when worried over 
other matters, the mother checked her raspingly. And 
once indeed, in a fit of abstraction, the father had 
raised his hand to his forehead, following Cecilia’s 
example unconsciously. It seemed such a natural 
thing to do! His wife’s wide, horrified gaze inter¬ 
rupted the completion of the blessed sign. He did 
not repeat the error. 

“Why didn’t you make Senator Hayden stay for 
dinner?** Colin now enquired. 

“He had an engagement,’’ answered Mrs. Emory 
quickly. “He was very sorry too—on one of our free 
evenings! You know he does prefer to dine with the 
family.’’ 

Colin raised his eyebrows. His mother’s absolutely 
correct manner annoyed him, just as absence of it 
would have made him hotly angry. Colin was an 
important young man, whose moods had to be con¬ 
sidered. 

“Senator Hayden is a bit of an epicure,’’ he 
said. “If you had told him the name of your cook, 
perhaps—’’ 

“Colin, don’t be absurd!*’ smiled Mrs. Emory. 

Cecilia looked at her father. 

“I am sorry I did not see Senator Hayden,” she 
said. 


34 


BROKEN PATHS 


“He is very interesting/* said Mrs. Emory. 

“Too darned interesting/* grumbled Colin. “He’s 
interested too much. Thinks he can go around the 
world giving good advice.” 

“My dear boy! A man of his experience—” 

Colin growled. 

“I suppose he got it by being foolish in his youth/’ 
he said. “He should let a few others gain wisdom 
the same way.” 

Mrs. Emory made no comment on this, nor did the 
father. Both of them knew Colin too well to suspect 
him of any harum-scarum tendencies. Colin had both 
eyes fixed on the future too securely to jeopardize it. 

There was little sparkle of wit and flow of soul 
here at any time. Dinner was soon over. 

“Let us have our coffee now,” said Colin. “I’m 
to meet Ennis at nine, so I want to get away.” He 
rose as soon as he had finished. Mr. Emory went 
into the living-room—Mrs. Emory also, bringing some 
lace work in a handsome little basket. 

Cecilia rose, but did not leave directly. Instead, 
she stood looking down at the table, her hand resting 
on the back of the chair, a dubious expression on her 
fair face. She followed them, then, closing the door 
of the living-room carefully behind her, and Mrs. 
Emory glanced complacently at the slender figure in 
its white gown. How fortunate it was that Cecilia 
was so lovely—so lovely that she needed no artificial 


BROKEN PATHS 


35 


aid to render her attractive. Luckily the child had 
this real beauty, because—well—not even to herself 
would Mrs. Emory acknowledge that she thought her 
daughter stupid—and never would she realize that 
the only refuge for a diffident nature is silence. Stand¬ 
ing with her back to the door, her eyes dark, her 
cheeks flushed, the girl looked at her father first, and 
then at her mother, her mouth compressed a little. 
It was a charming, home-like picture; the portly, com¬ 
fortable man ensconced in a portly, comfortable chair; 
the slender woman, her hands moving swiftly, deli¬ 
cately. Cecilia walked through to the library, took 
up a book and came out again, rubbing her finger 
over the gilt top. Neither her father nor her mother 
noticed her. She drew a small chair forward between 
them, and sat down. 

“I wish,” she said, in a quiet voice, “that you had 
let me see Senator Hayden.” 

Mr. Emory paid no attention. Mrs. Emory replied 
but did not glance up. 

“He could not stay,” she said. “There was no 
earthly excuse to send for you.” 

“I think,” said Cecil, “that there was.” 

“My dear child! You can see him any time.” 

“Well...I am very fond of him.” 

“So am I,” Mrs. Emory agreed, but she frowned. 

“Very fond. But once in a while he presumes on 
long friendship, Cecil.” 



36 


BROKEN PATHS 


“Did he presume this evening?” 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Emory, a little sharply, “he did.” 

Again Cecil passed one small finger over the gold 
top of her book. 

“I was in the library,” she said. 

“Oh?” Mrs. Emory put down her work and looked 
at her daughter. “You—were in the library?” 

“Yes. The doors were open. I was in the alcove. 
I think I was. . .asleep. Your voices woke me.” 

Mrs. Emory shrugged her shoulders and picked up 
the lace, counting the stitches. “You know all about 
it, then, my dear.” 


“I do” said Cecil. A fleeting smile touched her 
mouth. “I do,” she repeated, “and I heard enough. 
I have decided. . . and I hope you won’t be too 
annoyed. . .that I am not going to marry Malcolm 
1 ravers. 


There was no aggressiveness, no emotion of any 
kind. A simple statement. Mrs. Emory laughed. 

“Silly baby! Don’t talk nonsense, my child.” 

Cecil stood up. 

“Will you write him tonight? Or shall I? I prefer 
not to see him again until... until he understands.” 

“Cecilia!” Mrs. Emory shot the word at the girl, 
throwing her lace on the table. “Come back here this 
moment. Would you dare to let a whim—a notion—” 


BROKEN PATHS 


37 


“You can say I do not know him well enough—or 
care enough—or something like that,’* continued the 
girl. “I thought you’d rather. You can say it so 
much nicer than I.” She put her chair back with an 
air of finality, and Mrs. Emory, speechless, watched 
her as she crossed the room. When the girl’s hand 
rested on the knob, she recovered her senses and put 
her hand across the table, shaking her husband’s arm 
vigorously. 

“Tom! Do you hear what she is saying? Do 
v* 

you? 

Mr. Emory made a frantic grasp for the news¬ 
paper thus rudely shaken from his hand, and his 
glasses followed it. He recovered both from the 
floor and sat up testily. Cecilia turned, waiting. 

“Cecil says she is not going to marry Malcolm 

nr* 

1 ravers. 

“What’s that, what’s that? What’s that you’re 
driving at?’’ He spoke to the girl and she answered 
him. 

“I won’t marry him,’’ she said. 

There was a long-drawn breath from Mrs. Emory 
—almost a hiss. She raised her hand. 

“Come back, Cecil. Come back here and sit down. 
My dear child, what has got into you?’’ 

A little sigh escaped the girl’s lips, as if the matter 
bored her. She came back, however, just as she had 


38 


BROKEN PATHS 


gone on, brought forward the chair and sat down, 
her arms folded across the volume she still held. 

‘Tm sorry, but I don’t care for him,” she remarked. 

“Ah!” Mrs. Emory’s ejaculation was one of relief. 
“Thank heaven! I thought you had a real reason.” 

“But I have,” protested Cecil gently. “Excepting 
that I’d rather you’d use the one I’m giving you and 
not bother with the other.” 

“I want the bother, Cecil,” said Mrs. Emory, in 
a quiet tone. “No, Tom,” as her husband opened 
his mouth for what was evidently meant to be a sharp 
retort. “We must listen; it’s only right that we 
should. In turn, Cecil will listen to us. Yes, dear?” 

Cecilia inclined her head. 

“Yes,” she answered, “only there’s nothing you 
can say.” 

“My little girl, I am really worried. Please tell 
me— 

“All right, then, mother. I went shopping this 
afternoon.” 

“Yes?” 

“In the store I met Glad Evans. We were chatting 
when she said: ‘Do you know that tall girl in black 
standing before the mirror?’ I did not. Just then she 
caught sight of Glad Evans and came over. She had 
been away to Hot Springs with her aunt—had just 
got home.” Cecilia unlocked her arms and put the 
book on her lap, opening and shutting it abstractedly. 


BROKEN PATHS 


39 


“She was such a lovely girl, so tall and proud-looking, 
but her smile was so sweet that I felt I could love 
her. Gladys introduced her, but when she heard my 
name—‘Miss Emory—Miss Cecilia Emory,’ she 
seemed to freeze, and nodding to Gladys, walked 
away. I never saw such a change. Even Gladys was 
surprised. 

“ ‘But you musn’t mind her abruptness,’ she said. 
“ ‘It’s only natural.’ 

“ ‘She looked at me as if she hated me,* I said. 

“ ‘She does,’ said Gladys Evans.’’ 

Cecilia caught her breath quickly. 

“ ‘But I never saw her before in my life.* 

“ ‘Of course not,’ said Gladys. ‘She’s been away 
. . .and she hasn’t got over it; that is why she showed 
it so plainly.* 

“ ‘Got over what?’ I asked, but Gladys laughed 
at me. 

“ ‘Don’t pretend, Cecil; that’s Joyce Moore.’ ’’ 

Cecilia was staring at the lamp now, her hands 
crossed quietly. 

“I couldn’t go on questioning, but I meant to ask 
you. Then, in the library I heard Senator Hayden—’’ 

“Oh!” said Mrs. Emory. “Senator Hayden!’’ She 
shrugged her shoulders. “Such gossip! Such talk! 
Pay no attention to it, Cecil. You are too sensitive.’’ 

“I am quite satisfied the way I am,’’ said the girl 
cheerfully, “so we won’t change anything,’’ 



40 


BROKEN PATHS 


Mrs. Emory stared straight at her. 

“Does not the greatest possible triumph of a woman 
appeal to you?” 

“In what way?” 

“You have taken Malcolm Travers from one of 
the most beautiful girls in the city.” 

A dull color swept over Cecilia’s face, smarted her 
eyes, burned her forehead. 

“Mother!” 

An uneasy feeling crossed Mrs. Emory’s mind. . . 
But.. .little Cecilia? 

“My dear, it may sound brutal, but it is true.” 

“Malcolm Travers would marry Joyce Moore. . . 
only for Father’s money.” 

“Is that all you have against him?” 

“Yes.” 

Mrs. Emory laughed. 

“This is the twentieth century, Cecil, not the 
eighteenth. You must trust your father and mother 
to know what is best for you.” 

“But that is eighteenth century. Mother.” 

Another odd sensation—could it be alarm?—stirred 
within the older woman. 

“At any rate, your word is given,” she said de¬ 
cisively. “The engagement is being announced, and 
Malcolm will expect you to set an early date for 
the wedding. I would advise you to make it just as 


BROKEN PATHS 


41 


early as you can—in decency,” she added, with sig¬ 
nificance. 

“Oh!” said Cecilia. Then: “I may—lose him?” 

“Exactly. And where would you—or any other 
girl I know, for that matter—find another like him? 
Handsome, aristocratic, amiable, and with a pedigree 
that goes back heaven only knows how far—” 

A curious little smile touched the corners of Cecilia’s 
mouth. 

“What is it?” 

“You will not.. .like it. Mother.” 

“That doesn’t matter.” 

“Why—I have often heard Colin describe horses 
...so. And...I’m not buying a horse. Mother.” 

Never had Mrs. Emory experienced sucn a shock. 
She could not believe her ears. 

i 

“Heaven defend me from a smart daughter,” she 
said. Her voice was cold and Cecilia shivered. “We’ll 
not discuss this any more,” she continued. “You’re 
going to marry Malcolm Travers. I have heard no 
objection to him before this, and if he likes you better 
than he does Joyce Moore—” 

“But he doesn’t, Mother. The Senator—” 

“Silly old fool! And a politician! Don’t forget 
that! Who knows why he does a thing? Personally, 
you have no objection to Malcolm Travers?” 

“None. He is most courteous. But I will not—” 


BROKEN PATHS 


• 42 

“And think what it means to us all—to Colin and 
to you. For ourselves—your father and mother—you 
need care little. We are not going to live forever, 
Cecil, and it is my ambition to see you in the posi¬ 
tion which you can surely attain if you are guided 
aright now. Do you think we would allow you to 
contract a marriage with this man if we thought you 
would be unhappy?” 

Cecilia did not reply. 

“You are a good child,” her mother continued, 
“and a great comfort to us, my darling. We’ll have 
no more of this, ever. Another person’s affairs are 
nothing to you—why mix up in them? Malcolm 
Travers’ life begins the day you marry him—all other 
things are left behind. This talk is but envy and 
jealousy. Not even Gladys Evans is free from it.” 

“Don’t you trust anyone, Mother?” asked the girl. 

“Outside my own family—no!” said the mother, 
with a grim expression about her mouth. “You’ll 
learn that lesson, too.” 

“I don’t want to learn it,” said Cecil. “And 
all you say about motives and other things may be 
true, but the fact is also true that Malcolm Travers 
broke his engagement of three years’ standing to marry 
...Father’s money. Give him Father’s money, if 
you like, but I do not go with it.” 

Oh, so quietly, so deprecatingly, she spoke; so 


BROKEN PATHS 


43 


gently, poor little Cecilia! The woman’s fingers 
clenched. Thorough exasperation possessed her. 

“Tom,” she said, turning on her husband, “how 
can you have patience with this absurd girl?” 

The father, though he had been seemingly intent 
on his paper, had lost not a single word of the con¬ 
versation. 

“What can I say, Elizabeth,” he asked bluntly, 
“but repeat your words? She is not willing to help 
either of us—or herself. She is repaying us with 
ingratitude for all that we have lavished on her.” 

Cecilia’s lips trembled. She rose, put her chair 
back once more, slid her book into the crook of her 
arm, and turned back, with her hand on the knob. 

“I am sorry,” she said, “but I shall not marry 
Malcolm Travers.” 

Those words were the embodiment of a desire 
that was to become overwhelming. For almost a year 
and a half she had sunk herself, as it were, in the 
personality of another. Perhaps, she thought now, it 
was not yet too late. 


Chapter III 
POOR LITTLE CECIL 

T HE air in the Emory household the next morning 
was almost purple, if depressing atmospheres may 
be expressed in shades. In her own room, Cecilia 
had hesitated at the thought of going downstairs. It 
would have been the easiest thing in the world to 
avoid, but in her quiet and calm method of ordering 
her quiet and calm existence Cecilia had had one 
standing formula: Do the disagreeable thing first . If 
she did not meet her father at the breakfast table, she 
would worry over his reception of her at night. So 
she made the plunge. 

Mrs. Emory came down, too, looking strained and 
unhappy, as Cecilia noted to her dismay. Before the 
meal was over the mother returned to her room, not 
unmindful of the effect this would have on the sen¬ 
sitive girl. Colin was still ignorant of his sister’s mad 
decision and Mrs. Emory intended that he should 
remain so. She meant to dig out the idea, root and 
branch, from Cecilia’s mind at once, and never, never 
should Malcolm Travers know that such treason 
against her most cherished plans had ever been 
uttered! Elizabeth Garvan Emory meant to marry 
her two children not only well but brilliantly. Cecilia’s 


44 


BROKEN PATHS 


45 


marriage assured Colin’s, and woe betide any man, 
woman or thing that interfered with her ambition. 
The iron will that had polished that rough diamond, 
Thomas Emory, that had carried him through poverty 
to competence and from competence to affluence, that 
had won—oh, a much harder task!—his observance 
of the “niceties” of living, so that he might be proud 
of himself as a “self-made man” anywhere and at 
any time, was set now against the meekness and 
gentleness of a girl who had always been like pliant 
wax in her hands. 

The father did not speak to Cecilia during the 
meal. When it was finished he rose from the table 
and went out into the hall, where, after some hesita¬ 
tion, Cecilia followed him. She was affectionate, and 
her father, at least, had never repulsed her. But now, 
though she stood timidly near him while he was 
getting into his light overcoat, he still said nothing, 
and when she would have lifted her face for his kiss, 
he pushed her away. But with his foot on the 
threshold, he changed his mind. After all the girl 
was his daughter, and that nonsensical notion of 
hers— 

“Girlie,” he said, coming back to her and putting 
his arm around her, while Alfred, the butler, stood 
discreetly aside, “you just promise me something— 
not much—only think it over for a day or two? Eh? 
Remember that? Think it over! Your mother is 


46 


BROKEN PATHS 


dreadfully upset* and well she may be. Keep up 
the family pride, Cecil. Be a good sport. Look what 
it means for you and for your brother Colin, too. It s 
only once in a thousand years that such a chance 
comes to a girl—” 

“You mean—” 

“I mean that the Travers and the Emorys don’t 
mix—not in this world,” he added. 

Her grave eyes seemed to look through him. 

“I—appreciate the fact,” she said slowly. “Oh, 
yes. But it isn’t that so much. It’s honor—a man’s 
honor—my honor. He gives up the girl he loves to 
marry me, because you are my father, because of 
your money! Oh, what a shame!” 

“Honor!” laughed Tom Emory, showing his large, 
white teeth in a contemptuous smile. “My honor 
is my bank account, Cecil—and it’s going to be 
yours, too. Oh, I’ve been taught that! Honor doesn’t 
butter parsnips, as Malcolm Travers knows. Had I 
been as scrupulous as you are, Miss Cecilia Emory 
would be somebody’s stenographer today, instead of 
a little beauty wrapped in sables. Now you go in 
to your dear, good, sensible mother and have a chat 
with her, and think over what she has to say to you. 
Honor! Stuff and nonsense!” His arms enfolded 
her, and she was caught up in a close bear-hug as he 
kissed her affectionately. In turn she put her cheek 
against his—a soft, babyish cheek, and her hands 


BROKEN PATHS 


47 


met about his neck, strongly, lovingly. An odd feel¬ 
ing crept over Tom Emory. She was such a little 
thing... what if... He shook it off at once. All 
rot! 

“Come and tell me what you’ve decided and—if 
it’s right, and it must be!—you and I will go to 
Drake’s together. The sky is the limit, little sweet¬ 
heart, even if it’s a diamond tiara for that golden 
crown of yours!” 

That was the real honor, then—the power of 
money? Cecilia stood looking after the portly figure 
going down the steps, at the luxurious car at the 
curb, with the man standing beside it, two fingers to 
cap. There was a style even in a salutation that must 
be observed. Honor! Your honor is your bank 
account! He waved his hand to her. She could not 
see in the blur of tears to wave in return; for her 
thoughts had flown back to one memorable day. 
Words sounded in her ears that had been deeply 
impressed upon her heart and her mind: “You can’t 
walk straight on a crooked road; you can’t think 
straight with a crooked mind; you can’t love God 
with a crooked heart.” 

They had been talking of the straight road and 
temptation, and Mother Philippa, sauntering around 
the maple path at the back of the big convent, had 
said that among many other wise little things. But 
those words Cecil took and kept for her own. Just 


48 


BROKEN PATHS 


as surely as it it wound before her, she realized that 
she would set her feet on a crooked road indeed if 
she carried out the desires of her father and mother. 
And, in her anxiety to obey, to please, she had not 
thought at all of the man who was to be her husband, 
save that she liked him in a friendly fashion, that he 
was gentle, courteous and—even yet she knew so 
little of life that she could not understand that this 
was his chief attraction for her—indifferent. A light 
pressure of his lips on her check, on her fingers, her 
forehead, and Cecilia was content. She would have 
abhorred him as a lover, but she did not know that. 

“When she had decided—” She glanced at the 
clock. It still lacked ten minutes of the hour. She 
could reach church before the eight o’clock mass 
began, and with fingers that trembled she crushed her 
little hat down on her head. 

“If Mother should want me, will you tell her I 
have gone to St. Paul’s?” she said, and the man 
nodded. It would have surprised Cecil had she known 
Alfred’s unspoken comment: “Poor little kid! She 
stands about as much chance with this bunch as a 
snowball in Africa!” 

When mass was over she knelt for some time, her 
beads between her fingers. Things mattered so little, 
after all, kneeling here, gathering courage here from 
the Source of courage, strength from the Source of 
strength—where courage and strength are given with- 


BROKEN PATHS 


49 


out stint or measure. And there Cecil made her plan. 
It called for both virtues. She would not step on a 
crooked road, though it made her mother an empress! 

When she returned home she stood at the telephone 
an instant, her hand on the receiver. Then remember¬ 
ing that it connected with her mother’s room, she 
decided not to chance that. Instead, she called Peggy, 
her little maid, and sent her on an errand. It was 
well for Mrs. Emory, lying in her darkened chamber 
with nerves that throbbed and ached, that she did not 
know what this message was. For Peggy had taken 
a note to Senator Hayden and delivered it into the 
hands of Senator Hayden’s own man, Peter. And 
Peter was fond of Peggy. 

“Listen, Peg,*’ he said. “The Senator’s been bad 
all night. He’s had a smothering attack, and I got 
Dr. McDonald at daybreak for him. He’s asleep 
now—but as soon as he wakes—*’ 

That was the word that bright-eyed little Peggy 
brought back to her young mistress, and it caused 
Cecilia some concern. She hoped that Peter would 
not meddle with the note; then she remembered 
Senator Hayden’s absolute trust in the man, and felt 
better. Besides, she had often called on him—of 
course not by messenger before, but wasn’t that her 
privilege? All this she told herself to quiet the un¬ 
easiness that was beginning to torment her. She must 
see him. He alone had the key to this puzzle, and 


50 


BROKEN PATHS 


on his word to her would hang her future conduct. 
And yet it was an innocent little note. 

“Dear Senator Hayden: Mother is in bed with a 
bad headache and will probably be there all morn¬ 
ing. If you are out before noon will you call for me 
and invite me to drive or walk with you? 

“Always, 

Cecil. 

That was all. But Mrs. Emory would not have 
thought it so simple as it appeared to be. 

The answer to it came in the person of Senator 
Hayden himself, correct as ever, stately, and with 
firm step, though Peter could have told of how he 
had to drag himself from his couch in reply to Cecilia’s 
appeal. “Yes, and if I knew I'd drop dead ten 
minutes afterward. I’d go, Peter,” he had said to 
the man who remonstrated with him. He asked for 
Mrs. Emory, but his card was brought to Cecilia and 
she went to him immediately. In his most formal 
accents he related that he had been passing and 
thought Cecilia would like to drive with him to keep 
him company. “And I’ll buy you peanuts,” he added 
facetiously. 

“I did not expect the peanuts,” said Cecil, 
demurely accepting. She stopped at her mother's 
door, and Mina came, finger on lips. 

“Madam has just fallen asleep, Miss Cecil.” 

“Oh! Isn’t that good? She’ll be better when she 


BROKEN PATHS 


51 


wakes. Will you tell her I am going for a little drive? 
I shall not be long/* 

“Yes, Miss Cecil.” 

“You received my note, of course?” said the girl, 
in a low tone, as she took her place beside the Sen¬ 
ator. She looked at him critically. “Senator, dear¬ 
est, you have been ill. I see the pain in your eyes.” 

“We’ll come to that later, child. Was it necessary 
to send for me—like that?” He was very gentle. In 
spite of his habit of erectness and self-possession, 
interiorly now he felt old and broken. He detested 
the virtue of meekness in man or woman, but he had 
seen his little Cecil grow from fairyhood to girlhood, 
and she could never be anything in the world but the 
golden-haired child who had taken possession of his 
heart years ago. He would be her shield when chance 
offered, against all possible ill. He had no earthly 
ties. Malcolm Travers, because of a deep and tender 
friendship for Malcolm Travers* father, he loved 
almost against his own desire, and always with the 
hope that the blood in the young man’s veins would 
help him to overcome his wastrel tendencies. Cecilia 
Emory was too frail a thing to stand the buffets that 
would be hers as Malcolm Travers’ wife. Besides 
that, he knew much of Joyce Moore’s story and 
guessed a great deal more, and he was well aware of 
the fact that Malcolm and Joyce were still deeply in 
love with each other. 



52 


BROKEN PATHS 


“It was, of course, most necessary,’’ said Cecil 
“You see, I was in the library last night. The doors 
were open. I heard everything you said.*’ 

“Oh!’’ said the Senator. 

The girl looked straight before her. 

“I’m sorry you went to them. You know. . .they’ll 
always feel. . .Well, I think you’ve antagonized them, 
and you’ve said yourself that my father can be a 
bitter enemy.’’ 

“Don’t be afraid for me, Cecil.” He spoke rather 
down-heartedly, she thought. “No one can do me 
much harm. In fact, child, I might as well tell you 
the truth. I had a wretched night. Peter called Dr. 
McDonald this morning. I’ve got to get away.” 

“Oh!” said Cecil. “Get away!” 

“Yes. So you see. . .you need not worry—” 

“I won’t.” She waited a few seconds. “I think 
I’ll be glad for your sake. They will be terribly 
angry, and of course they will blame you.” 

“Blame me? Why?” 

She stared at him with big, blue, astonished eyes. 

“You know I’ll never marry Malcolm Travers.” 

The Senator took in this astonishing statement, his 
chin resting on the top of his cane. 

“Um...You’ll never marry Malcolm Travers. 
Why not, little Cecil?” 

“Because. . .he wouldn’t have asked me ever, if it 
hadn’t been for my father’s money.” 


BROKEN PATHS 


53 


“Oh/* he said. “Is that the only reason?** 

“That’s the reason I*m giving you, and my people. 
I shall tell him I don’t care for him.’’ 

The Senator’s brows met frowningly. 

“Little girl, how are you going to tell them?’* 

“I told them last night. No. . .it wasn’t all you. 
I was with Gladys Evans earlier, and she introduced 
me to Joyce Moore, and laughed when I asked 
her—’* Cecil grew hot. “The shame of it!’’ she said. 
“They all know that he and Joyce Moore love each 
other, but that my father has bought him for me/’’ 

And somewhere along Senator Hayden’s spine ran 
a hot trickle. It had never seemed as bad to him as 
Cecilia’s clear voice made it seem now, and no words 
could equal the blending of pride, shame, mortifica¬ 
tion, contempt, that was carried from her inner con¬ 
sciousness to the surface of her lips. 

“So you have told them,” was all he said, and his 
voice shook. 

“Yes. It was very horrid. Mother is quite 
unhappy over it; that is why she is ill today.’’ 

“Listen, Goldielocks. Do you mean that they have 
consented? That they will allow you to break this 
engagement?” 

Cecil laughed. 

“Indeed not. They are determined that it shall 
stand. That’s why I wanted to see you. You must 
help me.” 


54 


BROKEN PATHS 


“Cecil, darling, I’ll do anything I can—anything!” 

“Then I want to see Malcolm Travers. . .today 
. . .before I go back. Couldn’t you manage that for 
me? Meet him somewhere, as if by accident? Go to 
his rooms...I’ll wait in the car...and bring him 
down with you? Or doesn’t he ride through the Park 
about this time? Colin does. .. in order to meet 
Muriel. 

“Unless Malcolm Travers has some terrific reason, 
Cecil, he never eats his breakfast before noon.” 

“How awful!” The girl looked genuinely dis¬ 
tressed. “Then I must put it off, I suppose. I could 
hardly wait in the car until he got up, and dressed, 
and all that.” 

“What plan have you in your head, dear child? 
What do you intend to do?’’ 

“I want to talk to Malcolm Travers, and I want 
to do it right away, to arrive at some sort of agree¬ 
ment ... or compromise. I thought it all out in 
church this morning. You see, he must keep Father’s 
friendship, as they’re going into something together, 
I don’t know what. I’ve planned how to do this so 
that I could take the blame, and yet know that he 
was really on my side, underneath.” 

She spoke hurriedly, falteringly. And he listened. 
Poor little Cecil! 

“My mother...you know my mother. Senator 
Hayden. She’s just darling to me, but she likes 


BROKEN PATHS 


55 


Malcolm Travers so much she can’t see any faults 
in him. Perhaps he hasn’t any faults. . .1 don’t know 
... I never saw any, either. And I don’t want to 
see any, or to find out any...” She was staring 
ahead of her; now she grasped his arm excitedly. 
“Do look! Look ahead of you, there on that path. 
Why, there’s Mr. Travers now! It is...I’m sure 
it is. . . please call him. . . please run the car up. . . oh, 
aren’t we Zuc^p/” 

The Senator spoke to his man. In a second the 
car had drawn up to the curb, just ahead of Mr. 
Travers, and the Senator was leaning forward. Mal¬ 
colm Travers saw him first and would have waved 
his hand and passed on, for he was in no mood to 
listen to advice and the Senator’s talk of the night 
before still rankled. Then he discovered that Cecil 
Emory was seated in the car beside him. He flushed, 
angrily, and his eyes darkened. The proximity of 
these two was most annoying, and he was not in the 
happiest state of mind. He raised his hat courteously 
and came forward. Cecil’s eyes were shining. She 
seemed actually overjoyed to see him! 

“Please come in with me,” she said. “The Senator 
will not mind—” 

“I am really sorry.” He looked his distress politely. 
“I have a business appointment at ten-thirty—” 

“I will not detain you more than ten minutes,” she 
answered. “You must come—” her eyes met his; 
“it is absolutely necessary.” 


56 


BROKEN PATHS 


The Senator looked at her out of the corner of 
his eye, then studiously turned his glance across the 
street. He would not listen, yet he could not close 
his ears. She was so pretty, so gentle, so mild-man¬ 
nered! Contrast her with suave Malcolm Travers, or 
with Elizabeth Emory, the hard. Poor little Cecil! 
His chin settled on the cane again, his eyelids 
drooped. 

“You see,’* explained Cecil, making room for the 
young man beside her, “I did a most unusual thing 
this morning. I asked Senator Hayden to call for 
me. I did so want to have a talk with you—I felt 
he could arrange it for me. And just as he was refus¬ 
ing, I saw you!” 

“You wanted to see me?’* He looked at her 
sparkling, flushed face. She was unusually lovely this 
morning, really. “If you had phoned, Cecil—” 

“Oh, no—” 

“Anyhow, it is more than I deserve to have you 
want to see me!” 

Her under lip was caught between her teeth. 

“You know you have the nicest manners! No 
matter what you may say, you’re wondering what in 
the world is the matter with me! I’m going to be 
very abrupt now, so you mustn’t mind. It’s about 
our engagement.” 

“Yes? Our—engagement.” He was unsmiling, 
stern. “I shall be along some time this afternoon—” 



BROKEN PATHS 


57 


He leaned forward and touched her hand sug¬ 
gestively. “And I hope you will like it. Please, 
Cecil, think of an early date. Let it be a June 
wedding.” 

A June wedding! She gasped. “Why.. .this is 
April. A June wedding! You are asking me to 
marry you—in June?” 

“Yes. I hope you realize that I intend to make 
you happy, Cecil.” He spoke confidently. “I know 

I »» 

can. 

“You poor fellow!” said Cecil Emory. Then she 
frowned. “But I ought not to say that at all; you’re 
not deserving of my sympathy. It doesn’t seem very 
manly to marry one girl, while you’re loving another.” 

The Senator’s eyelids twitched convulsively. 

“I beg your pardon!” Malcolm Travers sat up 
stiffly. “My kind friend here, has—” 

“Now, listen,” said Cecil Emory. “I met Miss 
Joyce Moore yesterday. Gladys Evans introduced 
me. How can you look at anyone else?” 

“Miss Moore? What has she to do with our 
affairs?” 

“Gladys Evans seemed to think she had a whole 
lot. It is too bad. You know I like you, and you 
didn’t seem that sort at all. And how can she take 
you back after this?” 

“Miss Emory—Cecil—will you kindly remember 
that it is very bad form to discuss your affairs in the 


58 


BROKEN PATHS 


presence of a third person?” His voice was harsh— 
he was, indeed, angry. 

“Oh.. .you mean Senator Hayden? But he’s my 
dearest and oldest friend—and although I know he 
just hates to sit here I want him to listen to every 
word. I am not going to marry you, Mr. Travers. 
Wait, please,” as he stared at her, dumbfounded. 
“When you talked to me first, I hadn’t the faintest 
idea there was anyone else—how could I? Please 
don’t interrupt, now. This is so—so horrid—and I 
must hurry, or I can never say it. I haven’t much 
courage, you see.” Senator Hayden detected the 
quiver in her tones. “You are so handsome and nice, 
and it pleased Father and Mother so much, and I 
thought everything would be so splendid. I didn’t 
expect much affection: I’m not romantic. . .or any¬ 
thing like that, and I thought we’d grow fond of each 
other and be good friends; but when I saw that lovely 
girl yesterday. . .it just makes me ill to think that her 
life is going to be spoiled through me—” she paused 
for breath. 

“Really, this is a most extraordinary conversa¬ 
tion—” 

“Now, please. . .you can’t get away from the fact 
that you did love each other, and I don’t know what 
can have come between you, but I won’t, and I’m 
sure you love each other now. Afterward, you and I 
can be much better friends and everything will come 
out all right.” 


BROKEN PATHS 


59 


“You surely have some object in view in talking 
to me like this, Cecil.’* His voice had the polished, 
metallic note Senator Hayden knew so well, and 
hated. “There is another man in the case? What 
advice has our good friend here been giving you?” 

“Another man? You mean I—why, of course 
not. I would never have agreed to marry you if I 
cared for anyone. And Senator Hayden is not to 
blame, really. I want your help—you must break 
your engagement to me.’’ 

“That is hardly a thing a gentleman can do. Miss 
Emory. But, perhaps,’* with a smile that was meant 
to wound, “you do not think I am a gentleman?’* 

Senator Hayden’s mouth set grimly. 

“Why,” said Cecil, “until this moment. . .1 thought 

** 

so. 

The Senator did not speak. A touch of color 
flushed Malcolm Travers’ cheek. 

“You mean—** he began. 

“Whatever you think I mean,” she said. “And if 
you force me to take the initiative in this matter— 
You can say, if you like, that you have learned that 
I am very much opposed to a marriage with you—” 

“I must refuse such an extraordinary request. Miss 
Emory.’’ 

“Then,” there was a little catch in her throat, 
“then you mean to keep this—compact?” 

“I certainly do.” 


60 


BROKEN PATHS 


“Marry a girl who—who must positively dislike 
you. . .now. . .for what? For the sake of money? 
It doesn’t seem possible!” 

“Has it ever entered your golden head, Miss 
Emory, that you are really beautiful? Take a sport¬ 
ing chance! How do you know I am not desperately 
in love with you?” 

She laughed at that—a little-girlish laugh that was 
sweet and ringing, yet which brought a wave of color 
to Malcolm Travers’ dark face. 

“Please don’t try to be funny,” she said. “You 
are sure of course? You’re not fooling? You mean 
.. .to go on?” 

“Positively.” 

“Well... all right. I’m sorry I interrupted your 
walk, but it was unavoidable. Senator Hayden, please 
let Mr. Travers get out.” 

The Senator spoke quietly to the chauffeur, a smile 
quivering at the corners of his mouth. Never in all 
his petted and careless life had the handsome Mal¬ 
colm Travers been treated in this fashion. And by 
little Cecil! Of all people! Poor little Cecil! As 
for the young man he did not quite realize how 
summary had been his dismissal until he had said 
good-by, and watched the car drive smoothly away. 

“Well, Goldielocks,” said the Senator, and his 
voice was cheerful, “you’ve started something.” 



NEVER HAD MALCOLM TRAVERS BEEN TREATED IN THIS FASHION 















BROKEN PATHS 61 

“I don’t think so. You heard him. Isn’t it horrid?” 

“Disgusting!” 

“I’m doing right?” 

“Of course you are. I wish I could help you.” 

“Just encouraging me helps me.” 

“I know, child. But I can’t stay. And Dr. 
McDonald was prettty stiff with me this morning... 
pretty stiff. I put it off, however. . .my going away. 
I want to take in Ethel Chamberlin’s dinner tomorrow 
night—I’ve promised her so faithfully. It will be 
horribly unpleasant.” 

“My people, you mean? Of course. Yes.” She bit 
her under lip. “I’ll do anything at all for them but 
this—this is a life job. It would be horribly unpleas¬ 
ant later, say when Malcolm Travers got tired of 
his bargain!” She laughed. “Even Colin will be 
against me. He’s so in love with Muriel Carter, and 
I do think she is in love with him, and if Mr. Travers 
and I were married it would put a different aspect on 
his attention. He is hardly in her class at present.” 

Was that sarcasm? But no. The beautiful face 
was devoid of sarcasm. 

“This morning my father said to me ‘The T'ravers 
and the Emorys don’t mix—not in this world.’ What 
has come to my father, Senator Hayden? When I 
look back on that cozy, comfortable little flat in 
Sixty-fifth street, with just seven rooms, with father 


62 BROKEN PATHS 

and mother and Colin there, why, i could almost 
weep over it!” 

“Your father is a wealthy man.” 

“Oh, yes—that is the answer.” 

“And you’ll never be able to stand the pressure.” 
“I know that, too. My mother can hypnotize me. 
I won’t stand it.” 

“What, then?” 

“Why, I intend to find another home. Or earn my 
own living—I can do it. I wonder if you understand 
what it means never to do, talk, think for yourself? 
I’d like a change,” 


Chapter IV 
THE SLAVE 

S ENATOR Hayden gasped and seemed to col¬ 
lapse against the cushions of the car at this 
assertion. 

“A change? Oh, Cecil, my dear child, you musn’t 
do that! No matter what else happens, dearest, don’t 
do that. You?” 

She made a helpless gesture. 

“What else, then?” 

“Hold out, and hold on. Tell Travers. It ought 
to shame him, if nothing else will. Absurd idea! 
Where would you go, and what could you do? A 
baby would do better—or as good.” 

“I am no baby,” said Cecilia Emory, “and I’d 
look for a job. I could cook-—I’m a fine cook. I 
took the entire course in domestic science at college. 
Mother Philippa said she couldn’t give me anything 
over one hundred but she added plus by way of 
mouth!” 

“Cook!” Senator Hayden grinned. 

“Or I could dress hair...and I’d make a good 
manicurist—” 

“Please, Cecil, don’t. . .don’t say any more,” said 
the Senator. 


63 


64 


BROKEN PATHS 


“Well, then. I’d learn some trade. I have a little 
money of my own—a little ready money, and some 
money in bank. I had nothing to spend it on, and 
Father has always been generous—” 

“Listen, Cecil. You can’t, you dare not, you must 
not!’’ 

“I won’t be quarreled with and made unhappy, 
and in the end give in because I don’t want my father 
and mother to stay angry with me. I’m so tired of 
that. They hurt me terribly when they’re cross with 
me, for I do love them, and I would grow more and 
more tired and at last—I’ll go to see Mother Philippa 
this week, and tell her about it.’’ 

Senator Hayden breathed a sigh of relief. 

“You’ll tell her all your plans?’’ 

“Of course. I tell Mother Philippa everything.** 

“And do you take her advice?’* 

“Nearly always. If some one was going to marry 
you, and it was a case like this, what would you do?*’ 

“I’d go off, too, Cecil. But I would want to be 
very, very sure where I was going. And, honey, if 
you do go, let me know at once, please. I’d be 

frightfully worried, Goldielocks. It might really kill 

»» 

me. 

“If you knew, you’d tell.” 

“Not unless you gave me your permission—on my 
word of honor.” 


BROKEN PATHS 


65 


“Good.” They were driving slowly, now. She 
put her hand in his, confidently. “You know my 
father and mother well, don’t you?’’ 

“Very well. Your mother is a wonderful woman. 
I have c ften asked myself how much of that invention 
of your father’s was his own. She is mighty clever, 
Cecil, mighty clever.’’ 

“But there’s something wrong, Senator Hayden. 
If only Mother were satisfied now. But she isn’t. 
Mother never will be, and yet right down in his heart 
of hearts. Father would be pleased — Though he 
never goes contrary to her wishes—never.” 

“I don’t think he ever has, Cecil.” 

“I am not complaining. Mother is good-hearted. . . 
and proud. And I’m sure as sure can be that she’s 
far and away better than most of these people she’s 
so anxious to meet! Mother is so true, and speaks 
so nicely of every one, and never discusses them—she 
is a real lady. While these others—” there was a 
little note of petulance in her voice — “I think they 
hate her. They say cutting things, and she smiles and 
passes them by and all the time I know they’re laugh¬ 
ing. And if I married Malcolm Travers, she’d be 
with these people all the time, and soon she’d be so 
hurt. It makes me angry, Senator Hayden. That’s 
why I sit so quiet and say nothing. . .nothing at all. 
I know they think me stupid, but I despise them!” 

Senator Hayden was too startled to be amused. 
Cecilia Emory defending her mother! He felt much 


66 


BROKEN PATHS 


stronger, exhilarated, in fact. Out of the wreck, 
the Emorys had saved one substantial thing. And it 
was through him that Cecil had been sent to those 
builders of characters! But she was speaking— 

“One can learn so much just by looking on! I’ve 
been looking on since I came home from school— 
nearly a year and a half now. The people we ought 
to know, the people worth knowing, would be glad 
to come if we appeared before them as we are. But 
the sham ones, the ones married to this and that, and 
whose father was so-and-so! Ugh! They are so 
exclusive. . . look you over as if trying to read your 
history on your forehead.” 

She relapsed into silence. Always taciturn, when 
words came she did not know how to stop them. 
Senator Hayden felt weak before her vehemence. 
He put his hand on hers. 

“Cecil,” he said, “we are nearing your home. 
Promise me, won’t you, dear child, to go slow? Go 
slow! Don’t antagonize your mother or anyone. 
Think ahead.” 

“I promise you that.” 

“I’m going to rest up now. I’ll see you at the 
Chamberlins tomorrow night, and we’ll have a little 
chat there.” He spoke with some difficulty, and she 
looked at him in alarm. He was very white, she 
thought, and his eyes looked sunken. She leaned 
over and kissed his cheek, tenderly. 


BROKEN PATHS 


67 


“Good-by, Cecil.” 

“Good-by, dear friend.” They shook hands 
warmly, and Cecilia ran up the steps, waving to him 
from the top. 

When she slipped inside she found her brother 
Colin. He had evidently been on the lookout for 
her, and here, at least, Mrs. Emory’s plan had 
miscarried. For Colin had seen his father, and had 
left him after hearing of Cecilia’s dreadful decision of 
the night before. It was dreadful, for it meant more 
to Colin than anyone else. 

“Where were you?” he demanded, as she paused 
at the living-room door and looked in at him stand¬ 
ing angrily in the center of the room. 

“Out!” she answered briefly. 

“Out! With Senator Hayden! I saw you from 
the window!” 

“My goodness gracious!” 

“I’ll see that Dad puts a stop to that old fuss- 
and-feathers just about right now,” said Colin. “How 
dare he call here after you?” 

“But he didn’t call here after me,” said Cecil. She 
poked her finger in the top of her cloth hat, and spun 
it around with the other hand. “I sent for him.” 

“You sent for him!” Colin glared at her. 

“Dreadful breach of etiquette, wasn’t it?” 

“Dad will call it something else. And Mother—” 


68 


BROKEN PATHS 


“And Colin?” She twirled the hat round and 
round more violently. 

“I heard from Dad—say, stop fiddling with your 
hat, will you?—that very sweet announcement you 
made last evening. Sounds romantic, dramatic, up¬ 
stage, yes?” 

Cecilia looked at him. He was really anxious, 
perturbed as well as angry. 

“You’re not going to do it, Cecil. You’re not 
going to spoil my future that way. And you will if 
you go on with it.” 

“Colin,” said the girl, gently this time, “I never 
said a word about it before this, did I? I was per¬ 
fectly agreeable until I saw Joyce Moore yesterday, 
and heard Senator Hayden last night. Now you just 
put yourself in my place. Father doesn’t need Mal¬ 
colm Travers, but Malcolm Travers can’t get along 
without Father—not if what I hear is true. I won’t 
take him away from any girl. I don’t care enough 
about him in the first place—and you’ll have to fight 
for Muriel Carter yourself. If she doesn’t love you 
enough to marry you just as you are, I think I’d be 
man enough to walk on. And I won’t marry Malcolm 
Travers if you never get Muriel Carter!” 

Colin Emory blinked several times. Was this 
Cecil? If this were Cecil then they had never known 
her—she was a stranger to them. She swung on her 
heel now to leave the room, but he stood before her, 
his breath coming fast. 


BROKEN PATHS 


69 


“You can’t back out, Cecil,” he said, “you can’t 
back out! It has been announced. All the papers 
this morning have it.” 

“What is announced?” 

“Your engagement to Malcolm Travers.” 

“In the newspapers?” 

“Yes. There was someone to see Mother yester¬ 
day afternoon. She could not deny it, could she? 
You were engaged, weren’t you?” 

“Well. . .we can deny it now.” 

“Cecil?” 

“Yes?” 

“Don’t deny it. . .yet. Later. For Muriel’s sake, 
as well as mine. Until after the Chamberlin dinner. 
Please, kid! It means a lot to both of us—to 
Muriel—” 

“Oh, but Colin, it isn’t honest —it isn’t. Can’t you 
understand? Besides, think of me tomorrow evening 
at the Chamberlins. All sorts of talk. Everyone 
will see the announcement, and I can’t let them act as 
if—as if it were going to stand.” 

“If you’ll not say anything, Cecil, I’ll help you 
afterward.” 

“To break it? But I have—” 

“And with Mother and Dad—” 

“Colin, why don’t you let me finish? I have prac¬ 
tically broken—” 


70 


BROKEN PATHS 


“Be a sport, Cecil. You don’t have to say a 
single word—just smile. No one expects you to talk. 
You’ve got ’em trained. Good girl! That’s all. Just 
let it go at that!” 

And before she could protest he had waved his 
hand gaily and left the room. 

Very soberly Cecil walked up the stairs, her head 
bent, her brain in a whirl. She did not know how far 
things had gone between Muriel and Colin, but at 
any rate her part was to stand and wait for a while. 
Her lips curved. “Be a sport,’’ said her father. “Take 
a sporting chance,’’ said her lover. “Be a sport,” 
echoed her brother. After all, what was it to be a 
sport? To throw the dice and depend on luck for all 
her future happiness? And who was throwing the 
dice? She wasn’t. 

She sighed wearily. It was going to be hard, but 
one couldn’t walk straight on a crooked road. . .She 
caught her breath, and straightened her shoulders. All 
right, Mother Philippa! 

Not three blocks away from her, facing the same 
beautiful park, in a house as substantial and luxurious 
and as elegantly appointed as the Emory’s, a little 
wizened old woman, thin to the point of emaciation, 
yellow of skin and tight of mouth, and with spectacles 
perched on the end of her nose, looked up with a 
cackle from the newspaper she was reading. 

“ITave you seen it, Joyce?” she asked shrilly. 
“Have you read the good news?” The tall girl who 


BROKEN PATHS 71 

was measuring some drops into a glass did not glance 
toward her. 

“The good news?” she repeated, abstractedly. 

“Why, the announcement. The engagement of 
Cecilia Mary Emory—he, he, he!—and Malcolm 
Hayden Travers—ho, ho, ho! There it is! In 
black and white, Joyce! It’s finished at last!” She 
lay back in her chair and half closed her eyes, a 
smile of contentment on her face. “Finished at last! 
Finished at last!” 

“It’s just what you’ve schemed and planned for. 
Aunt Harriet,” said the girl in an unmoved tone. 
“I hope it has pleased you.” 

“Most gratifying!” echoed the old lady. “Cecilia 
Mary Emory! Who is Cecilia Mary Emory? A 
nobody! Who has ever heard of her? No one. And 
Malcolm Travers is marrying her out of spite and dis¬ 
appointed love! How happy they are going to be— 
Malcolm Travers and his Cecilia Mary! Picked her 
up in some manicure shop, I’ll be bound! Good, 
good!” 

A flickering smile passed over the girl’s mouth. 
She had a weapon to sting and annoy now where she 
had been often stung and annoyed. 

“Don’t be too sure. Aunt Harriet,” she said. 
“We’ve been so long away and these are strenuous 
times. Many new faces and people are to be seen, 
and I think the Emorys are of some consideration.” 


72 


BROKEN PATHS 


“Oh, you do!” She straightened up and looked at 
her sharply. “But / do not know them.” 

“No? Yet Malcolm Travers and Miss Emory 
met at Ethers.” 

“What!” And now the fingers curved crookedly, 
like claws. “What do you mean?” 

“And they are very, very rich. Mr. Thomas 
Emory could buy and sell you twenty times over.” 

The grim face hardened. 

“I’ve kept Malcolm Travers from getting you,” 
she said. 

“Well—from all that he said the last time we saw 
each other—” The girl smiled and brought the 
medicine to the old lady’s side: “Drink this, Aunt, 
now—it is five minutes past the time—from all that 
he said then,” she repeated, “I think he has been 

growing rather tired, and was glad to put an end to 

•«. »* 
it. 

The half-shut eyes flared open. She took the glass 
and drank its contents. 

“You’re not fooling me any, Joyce—if that’s what 
you’re trying to do,” she said. “No one could see 
you and Malcolm Travers together and not know 
you loved each other.” She laughed her shrill, ugly, 
venomous cackle. “In love with each other! And 
I won’t die before he’s safely married to Cecilia Mary 
Emory.” She spat the words. “I wish him joy!” 

“You may well do so. She is the loveliest girl I 
have ever met.” 




BROKEN PATHS 73 

“You have seen her? Eh? You have seen her?” 

“Yes. Talking to her, yesterday. Not pretty— 
just a beauty. A gold and blue blonde, with the 
rarest coloring—like a dream picture. I do not 
wonder he was glad to throw aside a worn creature 
like myself, soured and embittered by living in this 
atmosphere.” 

“Well, you’re going to stay in it.” 

“Yes, I believe I am. You’ve said so often 
enough. She’s cultured, too—convent-bred, I believe, 
and a Catholic. So is he, or ought to be. It’s an 
ideal union.” 

The bitter face grew more bitter still. 

“I shall never recognize them!” 

“You don’t have to. The Paul Chamberlins are 
giving them a dinner tomorrow night.” 

“I don’t believe it!” 

“You may. Ethel asked me last week. I’ve 
accepted.” 

The old lady beat the arms of her chair with both 
thin hands. 

“I tell you, I won’t believe it! Get Ethel on the 
phone for me.” 

Joyce Moore shrugged her shoulders. 

“What’s the use, Aunt Harriet? It will only upset 
you, and give Ethel the satisfaction of knowing that 
she has annoyed you.” 

“All right, then, I’ll telephone to Paul. You call 


74 


BROKEN PATHS 


Paul and tell him I want to see him. Why didn’t you 
let me know this before? Have you kept it to your¬ 
self on purpose?” 

“No, I haven’t,” said the girl, a little wearily. 
“And if you go on like this Dr. McDonald will tell 
you something you don’t want to hear. I mentioned 
it now because I intend to decline Ethel’s invitation. 
I have some sense of the fitness of things.” 

“Yes! Crawl!” said the old woman. “Crawl! It 
does me good to see you. Get Chamberlin.” 

The girl took the receiver off the hook, called a 
number, got it, and then held the instrument toward 
the crouching figure in the chair. She had trained 
herself well, during her years of slavery, this proud 
girl, and this scene was but the repetition of many 
others that had preceded it. Her heart was sick. The 
announcement in the morning’s Herald had fallen on 
her like a death-blow. Cecilia Mary Emory. . .Mal¬ 
colm Hayden Travers. . .And the girl was so lovely 
. . .so lovely. . .Was that what hurt most, she asked 
herself—the girl’s loveliness? She sat down quietly, 
hidden in the roomy chair, out of sound of that rant¬ 
ing voice. Aunt Harriet would rave and scold at 
Paul Chamberlin, and when she got through would 
rave and scold at her. The girl was tired of it. 
Heart and soul were tired. Tired of the tread-mill 
existence, tired of her dependence, tired of the bond 
that held her to one of the most querulous, most 
venomous, most unjust, most ungrateful of creatures. 


BROKEN PATHS 


75 


For it was not dependence alone that kept Joyce 
Moore in such bitter slavery. Her word had been 
given—given to the dead—and she would never 
break it. All her world, even Malcolm Travers, was 
in ignorance of this, and would ever remain so until 
it was ended. A girl of fourteen, she had made a 
solemn compact with the older lady that she had never 
broken. She was twenty-six now. Twelve years of 
ever-increasing despotism had she endured—and she 
must endure it, though it lasted for twice twelve years 
more. It could be severed only by the death of 
either. 

The death of either. With her hands lying idly 
in her lap, Joyce Moore’s thoughts lingered on the 
world. The last tie, the only tie that promised hope, 
had been snapped. She could not blame Malcolm 
Travers. Even if he lacked ambition, it was partly, 
if not wholly, her fault. Their engagement had been 
a mistake from the very beginning. She had told him 
so—but he would not heed. And then the biting 
sarcasm, the abuse which he had endured, patiently 
enough, from that embittered woman! No human 
being could endure it, and at last he had given way. 

The death of either! With none of the consola¬ 
tions of religion to help her, with none of the loving 
hopes of Holy Church to buoy her up, forgetting, if 
she had ever heard it, that glorious promise “Blessed 
are those who mourn,” now, in this dark hour—and 
only one of many such dark hours for the slave of 


76 


BROKEN PATHS 


Harriet Joyce—what was to prevent her from thought 
of severing the bond, of quietly slipping into a future 
which, though unknown, could not be more hopeless 
than present sorrow? 

She was roused by the maid, who approached her 
quietly, speaking, as did all the maids in that house, 
almost with tenderness to her, for they pitied her. 

“Miss Harriet is calling for you, Miss Joyce, 
dear,’* she said. 

“Yes, Marie. I am going.” She passed her hand 
wearily over her forehead. A weak, mad thought hers 
had been! She would not die and leave her aunt 
alone to do just as she pleased—a woman whose living 
hate kept the blood coursing in her old veins. She 
was the victim—she, Joyce Moore. She had endured, 
she must endure. And. . .twelve years had already 
passed! She had lived through it—she could live 
through all. . .she would not take her hand from the 
plow till the end of the furrow. 

The quick, rasping tones reached her ears before 
she pulled aside the draperies; the little black eyes 
snapped at her. 

“So it’s true. Ethel Chamberlin has taken up with 
the Emorys! Someone told me he was once a long¬ 
shoreman! I believe it. I believe you’re behind the 
whole thing.” 

Nothing was further from Joyce Moore at that 
moment, but a smile touched her mouth. 



BROKEN PATHS 


77 


“I think, Aunt Harriet, that if Ethel felt I wanted 
her to give a dinner to the Emorys she’d take to her 
bed this instant in order to postpone it, no matter what 
Paul’s wishes were. Ethel and I do not love each 
other—thanks to you, most kind Aunt Harriet!” 

“Ah!” The old lady’s eyelids quivered, and she 
laughed. “Why didn’t you think of that before—I 
might have worked it that way. Paul. . . Paul laughed 
at me! Laughed at me! I hate Paul Chamberlin!” 

Joyce Moore shrugged her shoulders. 

“Do you know anyone, at the present moment, 
whom you do not hate?” she asked. 

The old lady cackled as if she had received a com¬ 
pliment. 

“There are degrees, my dear, there are degrees. 
Sometimes, I think I hate you more than anyone I 
know—until I think of Malcolm Travers. And after 
him I think of John Moore. There isn’t hate enough 
in the world with which to hate him.” 

Joyce Moore shuddered. 

“There is one mighty fine thing. Aunt Harriet,” 
she said. “Your hate will die with you. You can’t 
hold it—afterward. Unless—” 

“Unless what—” 

“Unless it’s all going before you, and if it is you’ll 
have a heavy load to carry.” 

“That’s all you know about it. I’ll find a way to 
leave some of it behind me.” 


78 


BROKEN PATHS 


“No,” said Joyce, serenely. “Life is too strong, 
and death too sure. You thought you were plunging 
him into all sorts of trouble when you made me break 
my engagement to Malcolm Travers. And if it were 
not for the sword that you held over my head, I 
would never have done it.” She smiled again; her 
glance met her aunt’s without a flicker. “Now, with 
the fickleness of all mankind, my lover will solace 
himself at another’s shrine, that of a girl whose riches 
make yours look a trifle, and who is of incomparable 
beauty. How is your hate hurting him—now?” 

“I don’t believe it.” 

“Ask Paul.” 

“Paul—” 

“Or Ethel—” 

The old lady watched her, and over that old face 
crept a look of cunning. 

“Wait and see, my dear,” she said. “Harriet 
Joyce never yet failed to accomplish her purpose. 
Someone has to pay. You’re paying. Malcolm 
Travers will pay, too. You’ll see, you’ll see!” 

“And, in the meantime,” went on Joyce, calmly, 
“if Dr. McDonald comes in, you’ll go to bed and 
stay there. You would not like that, Aunt Harriet.” 

The old lady sank back in her chair, her lips 
curved in bitter lines. This one time, at least, she 
had to agree with Joyce. 


Chapter V. 
THE CHAMBERLINS 


A UNT HARRIET’S influence was like a bad 
habit—always objectionable. When Paul Cham¬ 
berlin turned from his telephone conversation with her, 
his face was flushed with anger. His wife Ethel, 
who was Joyce Moore’s cousin, in the third or fourth 
degree, stood in the doorway, watching him, her 
brush in her hand, and ’her soft, fine hair falling over 
her shoulders. 

“My dear!’’ She had not heard the brief colloquy. 
“What in the world has happened to distress you?” 

“Who but Aunt Harriet?” he demanded, with 
heat. “She grows more unbearable every day. Soon 
she’ll be regulating the hours of our meals for us. 
She’s like a serpent—an ugly-headed rattler, with 
seventy rattles in her tail, one for every year of her 
mean old life!” 

“Good gracious!” said Ethel Chamberlin, in dis¬ 
may. “What has she said, Paul, dear? You 
Aunt Harriet!” 

“I thought I did. This is a little scheme for you. 
Lady. You are to feign illness and postpone the 
dinner—for which act of graciousness she’ll send us 
a check for a thousand in the next mail. And I am to 


79 


80 BROKEN PATHS 

go over at once and explain this Emory business to 
her.” 

Ethel laughed heartily—more at her husband’s dis¬ 
gusted face than at his words. 

“I wish you could accept it—the check, I mean,” 
she said. She sat down in the chair before her toilet 
table, and pushed the silver pieces aside to make room 
for her round and dimpled arms. “She’s doing it to 
spite Malcolm Travers, of course.” 

“And why would you do it?” asked her husband. 

“To eliminate the Emorys.” 

“Well...” her husband threw himself into the 
rocker at her elbow, “we’re living in a great world.” 

“A great world. . .if people would let it alone,” 
said Ethel, rather tartly. 

“Which people?” he demanded. She laughed 
again. She was a small woman with dark hair and 
very fair skin, brown eyes and delicate features. 

“Just now the Emorys are my problem,” she said. 

“Our problem, Ethel.” 

“Yes, dear. That does sound better, doesn’t it? 
Oh, Paul, but I do detest that Mrs. Emory! If she 
were only vulgar or common, or just something but 
the real aristocrat, unnamably right, then I could for¬ 
give her, yes, like her! But through all her manner 
there is that faintly patronizing air. Sometimes I 
wish I could. . .” 

She slapped her hands together and looked at her 
husband. He smiled. 


BROKEN PATHS 


81 


“Well... I' Ve seen that expression before, Ethel. 
Don’t wish you could. . .to me. And I’m glad you 
know how to disguise your true sentiments. If Tom 
Emory dropped out of this now I’d have to accept 
that thousand of Aunt Harriet’s for a meal-ticket.** 

“Heavens, Paul, is it as bad as that?’’ 

“Nearly. I’m in to the neck. I’ve taken a sport¬ 
ing chance, Ethel, sure of his backing.’’ He put out 
his hands, palms upward. “But he’s a fine chap 
himself. You keep Mrs. Emory in good humor, and 
we’ll soon be on easy street.” 

“How soon?” 

“A month.” 

“A month! That’s horribly long.” 

“Depends on how you look at it. If he stays with 
me, we’re millionaires. If he turns me down, we’re 
paupers.” 

“Well, it doesn’t matter now, so much. I’m afraid 
the real mischief is done.” 

Paul Chamberlin looked his perplexity. 

“Mischief, dear? What does that mean, mischief?” 

“All sorts of things—and particularly one thing for 
which I—because of you—am directly responsible.” 

“Suppose you go into it,” suggested her husband. 

“Well, of course. . .only for you, Malcolm Travers 
and Cecil wouldn’t have met.” 

“I think I did Malcolm Travers a good turn, 
there.” 


82 BROKEN PATHS 

“I’m sure of it. But what sort of a good turn did 
you do Joyce?” 

“You’re not being sorry for or sympathizing with 
Joyce Moore?” he asked in astonishment. 

“No, I’m not. Since the last time she told me to 
stop goading her and mind my own business when I 
urged her to leave that old grampus up there, I’ve 
let Joyce severely alone—just as she asked me to. 
There’s no love lost between us, but I hate to have 
every one wondering and commenting—do you under¬ 
stand Joyce—” 

“Please, Ethel! I can’t begin the Joyce question 
this morning.” 

“No. But there’s something else going on under 
your very nose.” 

“What else?” 

“Just like a man,” she sighed. “By the way, the 
engagement is announced this morning. Catch the 
Emorys missing a chance of advertising a thing like 
that!” 


“Between—” 

“Cecilia Mary Emory and Malcolm Hayden 

HP 

1 ravers. 


Paul whistled. 

“They’ve lost no time,” he said. 
Mrs. Chamberlin was silent. Then: 
“Poor Joyce!” 



BROKEN PATHS 


83 


“Alas, poor Joyce!” echoed Mr. Chamberlin. 
“They can’t say Malcolm Travers has done any¬ 
thing—wrong. Besides, he is clever enough. He’s 
in on old Emory’s scheme, and I think he’s going to 
do well—Malcolm has a great deal of personal 
magnetism. But this cuts Joyce out altogether now.” 

“It will raise all that horrid talk again about her 
and Aunt Harriet. It looks as if the old lady has 
some power over her—and yet we know that can’t 
be true—though why she sticks is a mystery and I 
suppose always will be. Joyce has had her chances. 
There were Will King and Basil Torrens—both of 
them were attracted by her. Will King solaced him¬ 
self with Minnie Harper, but I think Basil Torrens 
was hard hit. Do you remember how Aunt Harriet 
raged when Basil Torrens and Malcolm Travers tried 
to cut each other out?” 

“Does the whole world remember it?’’ echoed 
Paul Chamberlin. “Though to tell the truth, I don’t 
think Basil Torrens cared so much—I got that im¬ 
pression.” 

“We haven’t heard from him in a long time—not 
since his mother’s death.” 

“Business, my dear. He took that commission out 
west three years ago.” 

“I imagine,” said Ethel, “that it was because old 
Mrs. Torrens and Joyce were so fond of each other 
that he became interested in the first place.” 


84 


BROKEN PATHS 


*‘Perhaps Joyce is in touch with him.” 

“No she isn’t—I’m sure. But now, Paul, tell me 
your honest, private opinion of Colin Emory.” 

“Colin Emory. I wish you were a man, Ethel. 
With due deference to your sex I consider him a pop¬ 
injay, an insufferable coxcomb, clever as the dickens, 
but pretentious—a bluff. Heavens! Why must one 
be polite in the presence of one’s better half these 
days?” 

“Decent?’* 

“Decent? Oh, I suppose so. To be indecent would 
imply too much condescension. Lady, Lady, wouldn’t 
I love to see him shoveling coal!” 

“All right. But that silly, ridiculous, spoiled, pretty 
Muriel of ours has fallen head over heels in love 
with him.” 

“In love with Colin Emory!” 

“Exactly. Our sister, Paul Chamberlin. Think of 
being related to the Emorys! Think of having the 
Emorys in the family!” 

“Impossible!” 

“But it’s true!” 

“Your father and mother will forbid it.” 

“Forbid what? Marriage to Malcolm Travers’ 
wealthy brother-in-law? Not my father and mother. 
Colin Emory, decorated with good solid cash and 
elevated by such a connection? Mr. and Mrs. Colin 
Emory, and Mrs. Paul Chamberlin, who is Mrs. 


BROKEN PATHS 


85 


Colin Emory’s sister—” she laughed. “And Mrs. 
Malcolm Travers, who is Mr. Colin Emory’s 
sister—’* 

“And Muriel is in love with him?’’ 

“Worse. She’s infatuated—and I'll do him the 
justice of saying that he’s as deep in it as she is. I 
never dreamed of such a thing! Why, she could have 
had—’’ 

“I know,’’ said Paul Chamberlin, hastily. Pretty 
Muriel Carter’s refusal of a certain bloated plutocrat 
the year previous had formed the topic of conversa¬ 
tion for three solid months. He had tired of it. 
Unfortunately the plutocrat died six months after his 
proposal, which was fuel added to the flame—figura¬ 
tively, at least, in this mundane sphere. “There is 
nothing to be done?’’ 

“Absolutely nothing. Just consider his good points, 
that's all, and endure the bad ones.’’ 

“Well, he’s handsome enough, and he has a cer¬ 
tain manner, and he’s well-educated—now, you 
needn’t look like that! I’m enumerating the good 
points. For if Muriel wants him she'll have him and 
you can rave if you like and all you like.’’ 

Ethel Chamberlin sighed. 

“That’s the trouble. Really, Paul, I ought to be 
vexed with you. Only for you all this wouldn’t have 
happened.’’ 

He laughed—not quite so pleasantly this time. 



86 


BROKEN PATHS 


“You must take the bitter, too, Ethel. Only for me 
other things wouldn’t have happened, either. There’s 
always a chance, and Muriel’s marriage to Colin 
Emory won’t be the most terrible calamity in this 
world. I think Muriel would make things fly if any¬ 
one attempted to play tricky with her sister’s husband, 
eh? If they marry I’ll know where Tom Emory is if 
I want him, or I miss my guess.” 

Ethel pushed her hair back from her forehead. 

“Do you realize,” she said acidly, “that I’ve been 
waiting for your deal to close. . .to drop them?” 

“Be careful. Lady. There’s always a neutral 
ground, and Mrs. Emory is not stupid.” 

“Stupid? She leaves all the stupidity of the family 
to that inane daughter of hers. Malcolm Travers with 
a wife like that! Have you ever heard her talk?” 
“No.” 

“Neither has anyone else.” 

“But she’s certainly a beauty.” 

“Just that. Nothing more. I’ve sent three different 
men to talk to her, amuse her. . . and their faces. . . 
honestly! I wouldn’t risk my reputation as a hostess 
tomorrow night. You’ll sit on one side and Malcolm 
Travers on the other.” 

“I think I can stand it,” he grinned. “And Mal¬ 
colm will have to.” 

“Try to lean across her place, or something, when 
she makes that sign—she blesses herself—I believe 


BROKEN PATHS 


87 


that’s what they call it. Wouldn’t you think they’d 
teach her not to do it in public? Malcolm Travers 
says it’s quite original—that Roman Catholic thing 
she does. It mortified me last time. Honestly—” 

“Now, never mind. It will be all right. I’ll take 
care of the girl for you and you play up the Emorys. 
If Malcolm Travers is at his best—’’ 

“He’s sure to be—with Joyce there.” 

“Joyce? Joyce coming?” 

“Pleasant, isn’t it? How could I dream Mrs. 
Emory would turn up trumps so soon? I am hoping 
that if Joyce sees the announcement she’ll plead out 
of it, and I’ll get Gladys Evans. At any rate I’m 
expecting a call from her now that you’ve had one 
from darling Aunt Harriet.” 

“Then I’ll get on—” 

“And I’ll see what mother has to say about 
Muriel—” 

“Ethel—this is distinctly Muriel’s business. Don’t 
mix up in it just yet, until we’re out of the woods. 
Tom Emory is new and all that, but he’s as shrewd 
as a fox, and at this stage of the game I’m playing 
safe.” 

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you. If Muriel marries 
Colin Emory, we’ll have them on our hands all the 
time!” 

“Colin is such a coxcomb he’d turn down his 
father and mother any day if he thought—” 




88 


BROKEN PATHS 


Ethel Chamberlin laughed. 

“Oh, Paul! Turn down his mother! Could any 
one in the world do that?” 

“Well—” 

“Besides, Muriel actually admires Mrs. Emory. 
It’s gone as far as that. The only redeeming part 
of the marriage—if it comes off—is that at least 
we’ll have Malcolm Travers in the family.” 

“Fm really sorry you’re so annoyed, dear.” Her 
husband rose, his hand resting on her shoulder, and 
she laughed up at him. 

“That’s the only thing that gives me courage— 
your sympathy,” said his wife, and she smiled. 
“Just let me impress you once more. You must see 
that Cecil Emory is amused and entertained. She 
is very, very timid, and if Joyce should happen to 
come everything will be muddled.” 

“Especially for Joyce.” 

“No, for me. Malcolm Travers can’t resist talk¬ 
ing to her, and the Emorys might be frightfully 
displeased.” 

“That puts it in a different light. We mustn’t 
displease the Emorys. Listen, Lady: Joyce is your 
cousin, after all, and only a poor relation—I’m not 
saying that in a mean way—only you don’t have 
to hedge with her. Call her yourself if she doesn’t 
call you, and ask her if she wouldn’t like to with¬ 
draw—say that you’ll find a substitute.” 



BROKEN PATHS 


89 


“Oh, that’s so ran>/” 

“I know—but you’ll be raw-nerved before tomor¬ 
row night.” 

“I’ll think about it.” 

“Do.. We’ re in for it—we can’t help it. And 
whatever success I have will go to the credit of my 
own bright, thoughtful little wife.” 

She kissed his cheek. 

“You have learned the secret, Paul,” she said. 
“So many wives and husbands are just on biting 
terms. A woman will do much for her husband 
when she gets the right sort of flattery.” 

At two o’clock that afternoon Ethel called Joyce 
to the phone. That whole day Joyce had been 
debating how she could get out of the Chamberlin 
dinner gracefully. To pretend illness would seem 
to indicate that she cared. To withdraw without 
an excuse would give Ethel a chance to sneer at 
her, and Ethel had availed herself of such chances 
before. Now, at the almost ingratiating tones that 
came to her over the wire, an expression of relief 
crossed her face. But her voice did not show that. 
She was coolly amused. 

“Oh, my dear Ethel,” she said, “I have no inter¬ 
est in the matter. . . So you are afraid my presence 
will spoil your dinner? How?” 

She listened to the reply. Her cousin was a little 
flurried. 


90 


BROKEN PATHS 


"Thank you for your confidence. The Emorys 
might not understand? Of course not! Certainly 
you haven’t had a chance to train them yet. . . Oh, 
my dear, I withdraw! Naturally!... Perhaps it 
would be just as well...” 

"What’s that, what’s that?” It was Aunt Har¬ 
riet, her querulous voice cutting across the conversa¬ 
tion. "What’s that? Give me the wire.” Her 
claw-like hands reached for the instrument. 

"Ethel thinks I had better withdraw from the 
dinner tomorrow.” 

"Withdraw? Withdraw? Give me that—give 
me that—” 

"But Aunt Harriet,” said Joyce, and her tones 
were plainly audible to the listener at the end of the 
wire, "I would much rather. It will embarrass 
Ethel so—and you know—” 

"Give me the phone,” said the old lady. "Ethel. 
Is this you, Ethel?” 

"It is. Aunt Harriet.” 

"What do you mean by such a request?” 

"I think that is Joyce’s business.” 

"I prefer that she shall go.” 

"What does Joyce say?” 

"Joyce has no say. She is going.” 

"Yes, Aunt Harriet. But you see yourself that 
Malcolm Travers will be here, and Miss Emory, 
and that things will be most unpleasant.” 

The receiver shook in Aunt Harriet’s hands. 


BROKEN PATHS 


91 


“That’s your business—you’re the hostess—you’re 
giving the dinner. I hope you are embarrassed. I 
wish I could embarrass you more. What do you 
mean—you and Paul—by taking up with a lot of 
common laboring men?” 

“Never mind. Auntie darling. That’s my business, 
and I’m the hostess, just as you said. Please let me 
talk to Joyce.” 

“Either she goes to your dinner or she walks out 
of my house for good this instant.” She cackled. 
Joyce, though accustomed to the goad, was stung 
under this one. Her face flushed. Aunt Harriet 
turned to her, looked at her then talked once more. 
“She has heard me—and the invitation stands, Ethel.” 

There was a pause. 

“Well,” asked the cool little voice, “is she pack¬ 
ing? No? If she had any spunk she’d have been out 
years ago. Well, then, since you insist, Aunt Harriet 
. . . the invitation stands. I shall do my best to give 
Joyce a pleasant evening. Good-by, dear Aunt 
Harriet!” 

Aunt Harriet jammed the receiver on the hook. 
Joyce Moore had risen, with trembling lips and eyes 
that blazed. 

“Some day,” she said, “you are going to go a bit 
too far, and when that day comes you’ll pay for what 
you are doing to me!” Her hands clung together. 
“There isn’t a judge in the land would convict me 


92 


BROKEN PATHS 


if...if...” her hands reached out, clutching con¬ 
vulsively. Aunt Harriet sat back with snapping eyes. 

‘‘The door is open,” she said, maliciously. “Go 
out, if you like. Now—this minute. And no judge 
in the land will convict you of—anything you may 
do to me—if you tell them why you have stayed 
here. Get on the stand and tell them that, and when 
it is told, my instructions will be carried out. I have 
taken care even of that contingency, my dear niece— 
daughter of John Moore!” 

‘‘Aunt Harriet, I think you are possessed by the 
devil.” 

‘‘Ah! Then have me—what do they call it?— 
exorcised. Yes. Have me exorcised. Malcolm 
Travers may be able to tell you how to go about it.” 

Very slowly the girl rose from her chair, her head 
drooping. She walked to the door, hesitated an 
instant, then came back again. 

‘‘You are driving me even that far,” she said. ‘‘A 
promise is a promise, and God knows I have tried to 
keep mine. I am going to write to John Moore, and 
tell him the price I am paying for your silence. After 
all. Aunt Harriet, he is my father, and if he ever 
loved my mother—and I am sure he did—he would 
not want my mother’s child to suffer as I am suffer¬ 
ing. You see,” she said, and her smoldering eyes 
fastened on the wizened old face, “at last I am 
finding a way out. And if John Moore is willing—” 

“Willing?” jibed Aunt Harriet, shrilly. “You 





BROKEN PATHS 93 

catch him being willing. Remember, I know him, 
and you don’t.” 

“I’ve served you faithfully. Why do you hate 

-V »* 

me? 

“Because you are his daughter.” 

“But I am your sister Margaret’s child, too. Have 
you forgotten that?” 

“Yes. And I want to forget it. I hate John Moore 
and I hate John Moore’s child.” 

A little smile played about the corners of the girl’s 
mouth now. It was a deadly smile. Aunt Harriet 
looked at it, fascinated. 

“I take back all that I have said about the devil. 
You are not possessed. You are just crazy. Aunt 
Harriet! Crazy!” She began to laugh loudly, 
shrilly, pointing a shaking finger at her. “Crazy! Look 
at her! The old witch is crazy! And you know 
what they do to crazy people. Aunt Harriet. . .They 
shut them up. . .they shut them up. .She screamed 
again, more loudly. And laughed again... and 
sobbed. Aunt Harriet seized the bell at her elbow 
and rang it. There was the sound of hurrying feet. 
Marie came in, and Oscar, the butler. 

“Take her away,” said Aunt Harriet. “Take her 
away! She’s gone mad!” 


Chapter VI. 
WITH RESERVATIONS 


“W7HAT time is it, Mina?” 

W “About two o’clock, madam.” 

“Two o’clock! Whatever possessed you to let 
me sleep that long?” 

“Oh, madam, you rested so quietly—I did not like 
to disturb you.” 

“Well, I can’t blame you—you are a real treasure, 
girl.” Mrs. Emory twisted her head cautiously on the 
pillow. 

“Your headache, madam?” 

“Not a trace of it. Where is Miss Cecil?” 

“I believe she is in the music-room, madam. I 
heard the piano a few moments ago.” 

“Good. Has anyone called?” 

“Yes, madam. Early this morning. Senator Hay¬ 
den. He and Miss Cecil went for a ride.” 

“Senator Hayden! And Miss Cecil!” Mrs. 
Emory sprang up so suddenly that her head throbbed, 
reminding her that her nerves were not quite settled. 
“At what hour?” Her voice was sharp. 

“About ten o’clock, madam. Miss Cecil was back 
for luncheon, and has not been out since.” 

“Well,” Mrs. Emory regained her composure 


94 


BROKEN PATHS 


95 


almost instantly, “I am sorry I missed Senator Hay¬ 
den. But he is such an old friend he will overlook 
it—and he is very fond of Miss Cecil.” 

“Yes, madam—shall I bring you some luncheon 
here?” 

“No—not here. Tell them to get me a little 
bouillon—nothing else. And I want my things—a 
walk will do me good.” 

“Yes, madam.” 

Mrs. Emory went down to the simple meal pre¬ 
pared for her. She wore a gown of clinging black, 
which suited her perfectly, and Cecil, with bright eyes 
and a smile on her lips—and thinking, too, how very 
lovely her mother was—followed her into the dining¬ 
room. 

“Better now?” she asked. 

“Much better, Cecil.” Mrs. Emory had made up 
her mind to let bygones be bygones. “Have you 
seen this morning’s paper? Where is it?” 

“Why, I believe Mina brought it to your room. 
Shall I go for it?” 

“No, my dear. You shall send for it.” 

Cecil smiled as she dispatched the maid upstairs 
to her mother’s room. The paper was brought down 
and placed at Mrs. Emory’s elbow. She turned the 
pages hurriedly, and finding what she wanted, a look 
of satisfaction stole over her face. Cecil was at the 
window drumming on the pane. Evidently her mother’s 


96 


BROKEN PATHS 


interest centered in the announcement which the girl 
herself had not yet read, and which she shrank from 
reading. But she did not speak of it. It was as well 
to avoid a dangerous subject. 

“Tell me, dear—has Burnett sent your dress?” 

“It came this morning. It is lovely.” 

“That is nice.” The mother paused a moment, her 
eyes on the printed page before her. “Cecil, you gave 
me a dreadful shock last evening. It was so entirely 
—unexpected.” 

“Yes, Mother.” She spoke colorlessly. Was she 
going to start it all over—and so soon? 

“I want a chat with you, dear—if we could meet 
on some sort of ground. If you will only consider 
us as well as yourself—your dear, good father, who 
has given you so much and asked so little.” 

Cecil stopped drumming. “Your dear, good, sen¬ 
sible mother,” had been her father’s words. “Mother, 

I—” 

“Please! Don’t commit yourself yet. I won’t 
either. Let’s agree to let things stand as they are 
until we are quite sure of what we are doing. I am 
speaking for myself, too, Cecil. You are determined, 
you said last evening, not to go on with something to 
which you have already pledged your word. Very 
well. I pledge myself to listen to all your objections, 
and weigh them as if they were my own.” 

Cecil’s eyes opened wide. She turned from the 
window. 


BROKEN PATHS 


97 


“Why, Mother—that will be lovely. I am sure 
if you do that—” 

“I can understand how a young, untried girl like 
you would feel piqued, and even offended, on learn¬ 
ing that the man who had asked her to marry him 
was once attentive, engaged to be married, in fact, to 
another girl. The story was not strange to me, and 
when Malcolm Travers first spoke of his love for you 
I was very frank with him about Joyce Moore. You 
will believe me, Cecil?” 

“Of course I believe you,” said Cecil. 

Mrs. Emory rose to her feet. “Come,” she said. 
“Come into the living-room with me.” She put her 
arm about her gently, and the unusual tenderness of 
her voice, the soft clasp of her hand on Cecil’s 
shoulder brought a mist to the girl’s eyes. Once inside 
the living-room she sat down, and drew Cecil to her, 
until the girl’s soft cheek rested against her mother’s 
hair. 

“I shall not force you to do anything you do not 
want to do. Marriage is a very sacred obligation—” 

“Oh, Mother, I never realized that until yester¬ 
day!” said the girl. “Only then. And I have been 
so foolish about it. I’m not one bit in love with Mal¬ 
colm Travers. I had no right to promise anything 
at all.” 

A curious light shone in the mother’s eyes. 

“Well, my dear—I know you do not dislike him.” 

“Of course I don’t.” 


98 


BROKEN PATHS 


“If you really cared for anyone else, no matter 
how poor he might be—or if there were any difficulties 
in the way of religion—or if Malcolm Travers was 
not—not nice—or even careless —your father and 
mother would hesitate a long time. But there is no 
one else; there are no difficulties; he is as good as 
gold, attentive and polite.” 

“Mother, when I met Joyce Moore yesterday— 
when I heard Senator Hayden last evening—I felt 
like a criminal!” 

“Dear, sensitive child! You know so little about 
—things. Forgive me! I should have told you—you 
ought not to have been kept in ignorance. You heard 
Senator Hayden. He is—a chivalrous gentleman.” 

Cecil stared. A chivalrous gentleman! And last 
night he had been— 

“I was with Senator Hayden this morning,” she 
remarked. 

“Yes. Well? What did he tell you—what did he 
say?” The over eagerness in the mother’s tones sealed 
the girl’s lips. She hesitated. Then, as if measuring 
her words: 

“He told me to be very careful—and to go slow.” 

“Ah!” A light of relief broke across Mrs. Emory’s 
face. “Perhaps he, too, has discovered that anyone 
is liable to error.” 

“Error?” asked Cecil, sharply. 

“I don’t know how to say it. Such things happen— 
and they always make one feel ashamed. The truth 


BROKEN PATHS 


99 


is, dear, that Joyce Moore has systematically pursued 
Malcolm Travers for the past four years. Every 
kind action, every pleasant word, has been so much 
capital—oh, I know what I am talking about! They 
have been engaged to be married for the last three 
years, but it has always been deferred on some pre¬ 
tense or other. Everyone knows this. His friends 
invited her; her friends invited him—they were tacitly 
thrown together until the possibility of their marriage 
became...a joke. I do not know what happened 
between them. Malcolm Travers told me most em¬ 
phatically that he and Joyce Moore had agreed to 
disagree, as he put it. And, my dear, he said it as 
if he were glad, and he must be. How could he, in 
conscience, ask for you if he weren’t?” 

Cecil’s eyes were troubled. 

“She doesn’t look like that kind of girl,” she saicL 

“Have you not learned to distrust appearances.. .1 
yet?” 

“Yes, Mother. And words.” 

“Not mine, Cecil?” 

“Oh, no, oh, no! But I want to trust—not people, 
but my own instincts, my own intuitions—” 

“And your mother, Cecil, your mother? Do you 
think I would deceive you?” 

“Not. . .not unless you were deceiving yourself,” 
said Cecil, slowly. “This girl may be misunderstood. 
These things may have truth—a three-year engage- 


100 BROKEN PATHS 

ment, as things go nowadays, sounds odd—but what 
were the reasons?” 

“I should judge—a reluctant bridegroom,” said 
Mrs. Emory. 

Cecil’s face clouded. 

“I’m sick of everything and everyone,” she said. 
“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to living. Back with 
Mother Philippa all seemed so serene, so easy. There 
were no shades of right or wrong-doing—a thing was 
right or wrong and you acted accordingly.” 

“My dear, convent life and life in the world—” 

“Not that only. Our own other life. Our flat in 
Sixty-fifth street.” 

“Don’t, Cecil.” Mrs. Emory shuddered. “Don’t 
bring back even a memory of that cheap and dread¬ 
ful place.” 

Cecil made a little despondent gesture. 

“It wasn’t cheap to me, nor dreadful, either. It 
was just home, and I loved it.” 

“Cecil, don’t talk like that! It is too ungrateful.” 

“Well, then. . .now you’ll let me talk. It isn’t all 
Joyce Moore, Mother. It is just that the Joyce 
Moore thing opened my eyes to what I am doing. 
When I first met Malcolm Travers I liked him—I’ve 
told you that again and again. He paid me a differ¬ 
ent sort of attention—he noticed me and was kind. 
I was flattered, I suppose. At first I didn’t think of 
such a thing. . . as. . . that he would fall in love with 


BROKEN PATHS 


101 


me. Then it happened. He asked me to marry 
him. He is a Catholic—a baptized Catholic. He 
may not be a very ardent one, but at least we have 
one religion.” 

“My dearest, I assured you then as I am assuring 
you now—” 

“Why... of course.” She was silent. “I gave my 
promise with the utmost tranquillity. I don’t know 
exactly why—unless that you seemed to want it more 
than he did and I had always tried to please you. 
I have never known a single instant of peace since.” 

“Nor will you until you are married,” said her 
mother. “Why didn’t you tell me all this? Don’t 
you think I understand, know, feel, for my own 
child? Yours is no unusual experience.” 

“Perhaps not,” said Cecil gravely. “Doubts and 
misgivings kept running before me continually. His 
people are not my people, his world is not my world.” 

An expression of bitterness crossed Mrs. Emory’s 
face. 

“But you have the key that will open every door 
in this world, Cecil. You have the key.” 

“No.” Something in the softly spoken negative 
sent a flush to Mrs. Emory’s cheek. 

“You will tell me next that you are destined for 
the convent,” she said. 

“No,” said Cecil, again, decisively. “Else I should 
never have returned to you. Mother Philippa and I 
discussed that thoroughly, for I had my doubts. It 


102 


BROKEN PATHS 


was she who sent me away. I did not expect to meet 
with such sham and pretense—” She stopped: “here 
in my own home,” she would have ended, but dared 
not. 

Mrs. Emory pointed to the mirror above the mantel 
—and laid a persuasive hand on Cecil's arm. 

“Look, my child. I told you you had the key— 
there it is,” she said. “Your beauty won Malcolm 
Travers’ heart; your beauty can make your husband 
an adoring companion. Can’t you realize that you 
are beautiful, and use your splendid weapon? What 
a power you can be in Malcolm Travers’ circle! You 
will meet people who will be glad to do your bidding, 
who will envy you, imitate you! You will be rich— 
very rich—your father and I have seen to that! We 
have planned nothing for ourselves. . .only for our 
children. . . and with that man’s name there is no 
place you may not take. Rouse your husband to 
ambition, as I did your father. You may do as you 
please. You will have beauty and wealth and social 
position.” 

There was no gainsaying her deep earnestness. It 
was in her voice and thrilled through her body; her 
eyes flashed, her fingers clenched in the strong emo¬ 
tion that possessed her. 

“You want to do good? No greater power for 
good wai; ever set before a girl. With your educa¬ 
tion and the development that comes with marriage 
... w She struck her hands together impatiently. 


BROKEN PATHS 


103 


Oh, what a blind and foolish girl that I must tell you 
all these things—that you cannot see them for your¬ 
self! Would that I had your opportunities and 
your youth—** She pressed her lips together. 
“You’ll think this over, Cecil?*’ 

The girl’s head drooped. How to tell her mother, 
in the face of this outpouring of her ambition, that she 
had already seen Malcolm Travers, and had broken 
with him? She was pale. She shrank into herself 
as she always did, when her mother strove against 
her. Obedience to her mother had always been so 
much easier than contradiction. It was so pleasant to 
drift on a strong current. Mrs. Emory put sanguine 
hope in her silence. 

“My good girl,’* she said in a gratified tone. “My 
dear, good girl!’* She turned toward the door. “Yes, 
Alfred?’’ 

“Mr. Travers, madam.*’ 

“Mr. Travers!’’ 

Mrs. Emory rose graciously, and Cecil watched 
her with fascinated eyes. Poor mother! To have 
such a child! Tom Emory, the longshoreman—yes, 
she was honest Tom Emory’s daughter. She was not 
the daughter of that man who had said “My honor 
is my bank account.’* And this was the longshore¬ 
man’s wife—that lovely, princess-like woman. Long¬ 
shoreman’s wife! Cecil felt an impulse to burst into 
laughter at the absurdity of it. She had never been 
that, really! She had always seen herself gliding 



104 


BROKEN PATHS 


through stately rooms, in splendid clothes, welcoming 
all who came to her with the grand manner. All her 
life Elizabeth Garvan Emory must have been pre¬ 
paring for such an hour as this! And the greeting she 
gave! Such a delicate air of intimacy—so correct. 
Cecil was lost in admiration. Her mother was per¬ 
fect. What a pity she could not—what was it Colin 
had said?—“play the game.” Why not? What 
would opposition gain for her? Only trouble and 
annoyance. 

But— 

And it was this “but” that obtruded itself. 

“I presume that you will want to see each other 
without—mother,” smiled Mrs. Emory now. “Cecil 
and I were talking over a few arrangements, Mal¬ 
colm—” 

Cecil looked at him. What was he about to say? 
What did his smiling countenance hide? Had he 
thought better of his refusal of the morning and would 
he now— A feeling of hope went over her. 

“Cecil and I have a vert? important engagement,” 
said Malcolm Travers, and his eyes looked straight 
into the girl’s blue ones. “The most important one 
in the whole world. She has not yet set the date for 
our wedding, and I won’t leave here until she does.” 

“Well,” said Mrs. Emory, and neither Cecil nor 
the young man knew what satisfaction filled her at 
that moment, “I don’t believe she has seen the an- 


BROKEN PATHS 105 

nouncement yet! You’ve read it once or twice, 
haven’t you?” 

“At least a thousand times,” he answered, playing 

% 

up to her challenge. “Perhaps more. I didn’t count 
them.” 

Mechanically Cecil picked up the newspaper from 
the table at the end of the davenport. The words 
stared at her from the printed page: Cecilia Mary 
Emory... She turned to her mother, with the paper 
in her hand, but her mother was gone . . . and in 
her place stood Malcolm Hayden Travers. 

“I did not know. . .this,” she said, a little chok¬ 
ingly, “until Colin told me.” 

“Did you not?” coolly. “It doesn’t matter. And 
won’t you sit down?” 

She sat on the edge of the chair. She was nervous, 
worried. 

“You have told your mother about. . .this morn- 

v* 

mg? 

“No,” she said. “I did not get the chance. I 
thought perhaps you might help me.” 

“What? After this thing?” He hit the newspaper 
with the back of his hand. “I’ve had enough, Cecil; 
I’m not going to have any more. Besides, I sha’n’t 
give you up. And that’s that.” He reached over and 
took her hand in his. “Shut your eyes!” he laughed, 
and then a slender hoop was placed on her finger 
and she looked down at a stone that seemed to wink 
up at her, knowingly. “This is how I am going to 


106 BROKEN PATHS 

help you, Cecil,” he said, and lifted the hand to his 
lips. When he would have put his arm about her she 
shrank from him. But he drew her closer. “What!” 
he said. “Am I so abhorrent to you?” 

Cecil’s heart was beating so that she felt breath¬ 
less. Her figure trembled in his clasp, and slipping 
from him, she stood up, tugging at the ring with her 
right hand. 

“Leave it alone,” he said, without rising. “Do not 
take off your ring.” 

“It is not my ring,” she said. His face was cold, 
his eyes steady, his glance masterful. 

“It is your ring—and you shall not take it off.” 

Cecil paused. First her mother—the domination of 
her mother. And for this they meant to substitute the 
domination of—a husband? Her breathing grew 
calm; she regained her self-possession. She was 
merely a necessary inanimate object, then! Well for 
Malcolm Travers that he did not know her thoughts. 
She held out her hand, her head turned on one side. 

“This is my engagement ring, Mr. Travers?” 

«*T. * »» 

it IS. 

“What are you giving me with it?” 

“I shall make you a good husband.” 

“According to my ideas or your own?” 

“Both.” 

“We may not agree.” 

“Then the fault will be yours.” 

“I am securing—an absolutely faultless lover?” 



I DID NOT KNOW THIS, UNTIL COLIN TOLD ME” 











BROKEN PATHS 


107 


“No/* he answered, “but you will have an ab¬ 
solutely faultless husband.*’ 

She smiled then. 

“I do not want him—and how can a thing be fault¬ 
less when I am so willing to find fault with it?” 

“The fault will be yours.*’ He was watching her 
warily. 

“Mr. Travers—my mother has been talking to 
me,’* she said. “She has asked me to consider every¬ 
thing carefully. Senator Hayden, my dearest friend, 
tells me this, too. I have promised them to think 
about. . .the future. My mother told me things that 
hurt me. I don’t want to believe wrong of you. I 
like you very much.” She was quite self-possessed. 
“Now there is something I ought to hear. Has Joyce 
Moore thrown herself at you—was your engagement 
to her, as it were, forced on you from chivalry?” 

The man’s face burned. 

“Who dared to tell you that?” he asked. 

“Mr. Travers!” 

“It is absolutely not true!” he answered hotly. “It 
is not true. How could anyone say that of Joyce 
Moore, the proudest girl God ever made?” 

“Then.. .isn’t there something you ought to tell 
me?” 

“Yes,” he said doggedly, “there is. I fell in love 
with Joyce Moore. We were engaged to be married 
—absolutely against her will. But I persisted. She 


108 


BROKEN PATHS 


told me then she would never marry. She repeated 
it time and again. She repeated it three months ago— 
more emphatically than ever. There is no tie of any 
kind or sort between us. She will not marry—ever. 
We parted the best of friends and I come to you with 
a clear conscience. And that’s the truth.” 

“As far as it goes,” she said, “that’s the truth. 
But, oh, Pvlr. Travers, you have not yet said, once, 
that you do not love her.” 

He took the hand she extended. 

“I say it now—I do not love her. And. . .1 am 
very fond of you. Ferp fond of you. I repeat 
again that I shall do the best I can to make you a 
good husband.” 

Cecil smiled, a little bitterly. 

“Thank you. I should be grateful, I am grateful, 
for your frankness. We are Catholics. I don’t think 
you are a very practical one, but still you belong. 
The marriage tie is not until we get tired of each 
other—it is for life—a whole lifetime.” 

“That does not frighten me,” he said, smiling. For 
the first time a misgiving smote him. She was in such 
deadly earnest — and there was surely something 
beneath her calm beauty. This was no milk-and- 
water maid, ready to yield without protest to a 
stronger mind. He recalled Mrs. Emory—indomitable 
—imperious. Did the girl have the same character¬ 
istics? Under soft speech, long silences, pointless 
observations, was there hidden such will-power as her 



BROKEN PATHS 109 

mother possessed? Impossible! These protests were 
but the ebullitions of a romantic girl. 

‘*Then there is nothing more?” she said. 

“Nothing more. You are satisfied?” 

“With what you have given me? Have I any 
choice? Really,” she added, “I think you are look¬ 
ing for a great deal of trouble. It had better not be. 
A wife with a conscience in your set, Mr. Travers, 
would be worse than obnoxious—to you, most of all.” 

He laughed lightly. 

“When a girl has hair like yours and eyes like 
yours and a face like yours, she can do just as she 
pleases, and there is no one to say her nay. I should 
like,” he added, and there was a look in his eyes 
that she had never seen before, “anyone to criticize 
. . .Mrs. Malcolm Travers!” 

“I hope,” she said, very gently, “that no one will 
ever have the opportunity to criticize... Mrs. Mal¬ 
colm Travers, whether I own that name or not.” 

“The engagement stands, then?” he asked. 

“If you will have it so—with reservations. I broke 
one promise this morning—now I promise—nothing.” 

“You may make what reservations you like. I 
mean to have you.” He bent toward her, but she 
flushed and drew away. 

He laughed. 

“Some day you shall ask for what you now refuse, 
little lady. I can wait.” 


110 


BROKEN PATHS 


Cecil looked at him curiously. 

“This is—love making...” she said. “How... 
funny!” 

His lips twitched. “You find it so?” 

“Yes,” she answered. “And we won’t have any 
more of it. Not until it is an engagement—without 
reservations.” 

She spoke lightly enough, but that odd thought 
struck him once more: What if...? Mrs. Emory’s 
entrance diverted him. 

And Cecil was wrung with self-scorn. Once more 
she had temporized, put off, yielded. Once more she 
had stifled protest as the current bore her on. 


Chapter VII 

THE MAN FROM THE WEST 

W HILE that unsatisfactory conversation with 
pleasant-spoken Aunt Harriet had left her a 
little more than angry, Ethel Chamberlin was to 
encounter still another disappointment. At that 
moment the cause of it had no thought of Ethel 
Chamberlin, but was lying, drained of every bit of 
his resistance, seemingly, on a couch in his suite of 
rooms, his head raised high, and his man Peter hang¬ 
ing over him with anxious care. For on his return 
from that drive, drawing, as he well knew, on every 
bit of his reserve strength, Senator Hayden had col¬ 
lapsed, and Dr. McDonald, hastily summoned, had 
had an anxious half-hour. But when at last he 
brought him round again, his orders were brief and 
explicit. 

“You’re to get away at once,” he said. “Not 
tomorrow, but tonight. Peter will have to go with 
you. I can’t trust anyone else, and you’ll let him 
do whatever he will, for he’ll be acting under orders 
—my orders. You’re good for twenty years yet, 
Doug,’’ he added, “if you’ll just take care. What¬ 
ever made you do such a fool thing?’* 

“I’d do it again,** said Senator Hayden grimly. 
“There was no choice.** 


Ill 


112 


BROKEN PATHS 


"‘All right, then. You’re going back to the Nevada 
mountains, where you were born. And if you’re 
good I’ll spend a month with you at the end of the 
summer. Peter, you know what you have to do 
now. Get down to the station as soon as you can, 
and get tickets and the reservations necessary. He’s 
not to move a finger without cause until he gets to 
Winnereka.” 

“Yes, doctor,” said Peter. He had made the trip 
before. 

“Telephone ahead to Denton, so that he can send 
to the station for him. He is to stay in bed a week 
after he hits the ranch,” said Dr. McDonald. “And 
then—” 

“And then—” Senator Hayden looked up with 
a twinkle in his sunken eyes. 

“And then go out and shoot mountain lions, if 
you can find ’em,” said Dr. McDonald, chuckling. 

“We must have our little joke,” said Senator Hay¬ 
den. He waved his hand. “Well, Peter, we’ve 
been expecting this, and it won’t take us long to 
get ready. The tickets are soon bought, and if any¬ 
one can get reservations at a second’s notice, it’s 
Peter. That’s why I keep him,” he added, grinning 
up into the man’s concerned face. 

“That’s why I stay, sir,” said Peter, promptly. 
“The packing will take an hour and a half. I’m 
ready for those orders now, doctor.” 


BROKEN PATHS 


113 


“Peter didn’t serve ten years in the United 
States Army for nothing,” said Senator Hayden. 
“I’m under arrest, I suppose.” 

“Yes, sir—indefinitely,” added Peter, and Dr. 
McDonald grinned. 

“Ah, ha!” he jibed. “You’ll meet no more young 
ladies for some time, Doug. . .not if Peter knows 
it.” Then, at the expression on his old friend’s face, 
“That’s another little joke,” he added hastily. 
“There’s been no real harm done; you won’t be any 
the worse for it a month from now.” 

So it was that twenty minutes later, on his way 
to the railroad station, Peter delivered a message 
from Senator Hayden to Ethel Chamberlin, appris¬ 
ing her of his illness, and his immediate departure. 
It was only one of those disappointments which 
every hostess experiences, but it added fuel to her 
vexation, and she felt that she had had more than 
her share for one day. Joyce Moore could have 
been safely left to Senator Hayden’s benevolent 
care—he was one of the best-natured and most oblig¬ 
ing of men, a host in himself when there was a 
breach to be stopped. “You know how heartily I 
regret...” She read the words over several times. 
“Well you’ll never know how heartily I regret,” 
she said, frowning, and tapping the floor with one 
pointed slipper. “If Joyce Moore takes it into her 
head to flirt with Malcolm Travers I shall be in 
a pretty stew. Regret! Oh, my dear Senator! One 



114 


BROKEN PATHS 


man short and Joyce, who was to have been your 
special care, in demoniacal mood, I presume! And 
everyone knows that Malcolm Travers can no more 
resist her, if she chooses to crook her finger—” 

For, though Ethel Chamberlin voiced her detesta¬ 
tion of Mrs. Emory, in her heart she was the least 
bit afraid of her. She was afraid of her shrewd 
common sense, her perfect coolness under trying cir¬ 
cumstances and the calm way in which she could, at 
most embarrassing moments, use that faintly patron¬ 
izing air, acquired, Ethel Chamberlin thought, God 
only knew how. Cecil Emory had found the key, 
however, in her musings. Mrs. Emory had been 
preparing long years for all that she was facing 
and enjoying now. Again she frowned. There must 
be some way out. “I wonder if Paul—” 

She thought a while. Poor Paul! She hated to 
annoy him—she knew he was going through a siege 
at the present time. “But this dinner is his affair 
as well as mine, and he may have a suggestion,” she 
thought, as she put through a phone call. In a few 
seconds he had responded. 

“Paul, listen. Senator Hayden has sent his 
regrets.” 

“So? Does that equalize matters?” 

“How?” 

“Have you called Joyce? Or has she sent hers?” 

“She has not sent hers. Darling Aunt Harriet 
told her she could leave the house at once if she 


BROKEN PATHS 


115 


dared to refuse to come—so that was enough for 
Cousin Joyce. All I want now is a suggestion— 
we’ll do the best we can think of and trust to luck. 
Is there anyone you can think of?” 

“You’ll never guess who in a thousand years.” 

“Then you have someone—honestly?” 

“Yes—Torrens.” 

“Torrens? Torrens? Basil? Not Basil?” 

“The same. He’s at the Metropole. I’ll take 
care of it. I came across him by chance on the 
way down, and we’re to meet there again tonight.” 

“Paul, this is a blessing!” 

“You’re walking on delicate ground, Lady.” 

“Trust me.” 

It took Ethel a few moments to compose herself. 
Truly she was walking on delicate ground—but if 
Basil Torrens* liking for Joyce Moore had endured, 
all might still go well. A little smile quivered at 
the corners of her mouth. Joyce would be too 
occupied with Basil to bother her head over Mal¬ 
colm Travers—too anxious, she was sure, to prove 
that she could do without her erstwhile lover. And 
Joyce Moore abroad was nothing like the perturbed 
girl who lived under such nervous tension with old 
Aunt Harriet. She had a subtle wit, and was, at 
times, brilliant. Her sarcasm cut, which was to be 
expected, and which those who knew her well 
excused in her. There was no mischief she might 



116 


BROKEN PATHS 


not be capable of concocting, bruised, as she was, in 
heart and mind. Ethel Chamberlin had, of course, 
no idea why she remained with the most hateful being 
she had ever known, but she did know that Joyce 
was often driven to distraction and apt to take it 
out on the first person who chanced to come along. 
She was not a patient endurer all the time. So when 
Basil Torrens’ card was brought up to her later in 
the afternoon, the pretty young woman almost bub¬ 
bled over with joy. 

“Glad to welcome you back to America,” she 
said, holding out both her hands. 

“Well,” drawled the young man, in a pleasant 
voice, “IVe just come from there. The latest statis¬ 
tics prove that New York City isn’t America.” 

“Oh, statistics!” mocked Ethel Chamberlin. “Let 
me look at you—I suppose America’s out Colorado 
way? 

“Why, it was there until I moved to Utah,” said 
Basil Torrens, his eyes shining. “I think that’s what 
makes our America. Every state has some par¬ 
ticular attraction to add to the glorious whole.” 

“You’re looking well,” said Ethel Chamberlin. 
“You’ re so brown. . .and your hair is lighter—” 

“Sun-bleached,” remarked Basil Torrens, laugh¬ 
ing. “I assure you it is only the sun! On my 
honor!” But he was a fine picture nevertheless, over 
six feet in height, brawny of shoulder and limb, 
with light brown hair, hazel eyes, irregular features. 


BROKEN PATHS 


117 


and a smile that showed a splendid set of strong white 
teeth. ‘ I feel out of it,’’ he said. “Fve been in the 
saddle most of the time, and I hate your old pave¬ 
ments. They hurt my feet. Lord knows,” he added, 
quaintly, looking down at his No. 13’s, “there’s 
enough of ’em to hurt!” 

“Never mind,” consoled Ethel. “Come and sit 
down and practice drinking tea from a china cup— 
I have a few odd ones and you may break them 
if you like. Look here, Basil, do you know you’ve 
been sent to me by heaven?” 

“Is that so?” 

“I have an important dinner on tomorrow night, 
and it must go off well. And here is poor Senator 
Hayden ordered away by the doctor—” 

“How is the old chap? I like him immensely.” 

“Just the same—just as affable as ever, but with 
just as little stamina, too, I think. I want you 
to come in his place. Will you, Basil?” 

“Delighted, Ethel.” 

“Good.” She hesitated. There was more to tell 
him, but, as Paul had remarked, she was “walking 
on delicate ground.” 

“Have you seen the papers this morning?” 

“All of them—for a week back. I had to get in 
touch with things somehow. I’m only on here tem¬ 
porarily you know. That partner of mine has some 
new deal or other and wouldn’t close until I came 


118 BROKEN PATHS 

and looked it over. I intend to remain in the West, 
Ethel/* 

“Perhaps, then, you read the announcement? 
Malcolm Travers is being married—’’ 

“What? Now? I thought that was finished 
ages ago.’* 

“He isn’t marrying Joyce, Basil.’* 

“He isn’t marrying Joyce?’* 

“No. They’re new people. The Emorys. Cecilia 
Mary Emory.*’ Ethel spoke hurriedly. “Joyce— 
threw him over. The Emorys are very wealthy 
and the girl is a beauty. You’ll meet her tomorrow 
night, too.’* 

“Yes,’’ said Basil Torrens quietly. Ethel could 
not tell from his manner what effect the news had 
on him. “I was out to mother’s grave this morn¬ 
ing. Someone has been taking good care of it. I 
was much pleased, and touched, too. I expected to 
find it in poor shape, in spite of the fact that I 
ordered it attended to. You see, it’s kind of lone¬ 
some—when one’s all alone. You don’t know that, 
there’s such a crowd of relatives in your family.’* 

“Oh, indeed!*’ remarked Ethel, with sarcasm. 
“You don’t know what you’re spared. I shouldn’t 
be surprised but it was Joyce took care of the grave. 
Her own mother’s grave is somewhere in the same 
place, and as far as I can understand she’s always 
pottering around there. Joyce has a melancholy 
turn of mind, as perhaps you are aware.” 



BROKEN PATHS 119 

“Well,” he said, “I don’t know who did it. I’ll 
find out. How is our beloved Aunt Harriet?” 

“Worse, thank you,” said Ethel, soberly. “She 
must drink it. She’s got everything I ever knew 
skinned alive for downright cussedness. She ought 
to live in a padded cell.” 

Basil Torrens laughed heartily. 

“Now I know I am back in New York,” he said. 
“Just that touch completes the picture!” 

“The Barnards are coming—the Teddy-Barnards. 
Mrs. Teddy was Barbara Evans—Gladys came out 
this year. You remember them? The Smith-Sheri- 
dans, Nell Swayne and Tony Desmond, Will King 
and Minnie, Mr. and Mrs. H arrison—Dean Har¬ 
rison, the banker, that is—Mr. and Mrs. Thomas 
Emory—Mr. Emory is in something with Paul— 
Colin Emory, and Muriel, Malcolm Travers and 
Cecil Emory, yourself. . . and Joyce Moore.” She 
made a little bow. “There are the guests, Basil, and 
you’re pretty well acquainted with all of them but 
the Emorys.” 

Basil did not look at her; his face was quite 
expressionless, but there was something in Ethel’s tone 
that told him she was not in love with the Emorys. 
He gave no hint of this in his manner, but responded 
lightly. Not once, either, did he allude to Joyce 
Moore again, so Ethel could not know what his 
feelings were. She did not care—she was com¬ 
pletely satisfied now that events had taken a for- 


120 


BROKEN PATHS 


tuitous turn. So they chatted and he asked ques¬ 
tions and she answered them, and presently he left 
her. 

The news of Malcolm Travers’ engagement to 
another girl had, as he would have expressed it, 
flattened him. Yet he was grateful for Ethel’s 
tactfulness in presenting it as she did. He wondered 
what had happened. Basil Torrens was not the 
sort of man to be an abject lover, and he recalled 
Jojrce’s honest answer to his question over three years 
before. “I love Malcolm Travers as much as I 
shall ever love anybody,” she had said. Tie had 
been very much attracted by her. The years that 
had passed since then had rendered her image faint, 
so that if he were asked if he still loved her, he 
would have had to answer that he didn’t know. 
The fact of finding his dear mother’s grave so cared 
for had roused interest in the dark, proud girl once 
more—for Joyce had been more than fond of his 
invalid mother. Ethel’s light remark about the prox¬ 
imity of the two graves had made him sure that he 
owed this tender attention to one whom he had come 
to think of as Malcolm Travers’ wife. Malcolm 
Travers had always been the barrier. Now, evi¬ 
dently, that barrier had been removed—unless she 
still cared. 

And the second barrier? It had appeared of 
slight importance three years ago. It loomed big 
before him now, for he had seen much of simple 


BROKEN PATHS 


121 


self-sacrifice; he had seen what comfort religion 
means to men and women, and how the shepherd of 
a flock is willing to pour out his time, his energy, 
his very blood to give its consolations to all who 
need them. Basil Torrens was a Catholic—Joyce 
Moore was nothing. In the heart of the great desert, 
in the bowels of the earth, in moments when death 
and disaster threatened, he had found out what God 
means to man. 

But he had cared a great deal in the old days for 
the good things of life, and thought very little of 
life’s sacrifices. Men had suffered and died since 
then for an ideal. He had seen one man, old before 
his time, live for his ideal, and endure unbelievable 
hardships. He had a new sense of the reality of 
existence—he took God into his reckoning. When 
he had left, with his friend Clarke, to finish his 
training and gain new ideas in bridge-building, he 
had not thought that he was also going to forge 
and hammer himself a character. He had spent 
twenty-two months on the fringe of the desert after 
Clarke’s death in his arms, to complete the work 
they had both begun. He never wanted to return 
to the day of three years before—he wondered if 
he would if he remained here—where the world went 
on in such carefully regulated style, where a din¬ 
ner like this of Ethel Chamberlin’s was planned for 
as if it were a matter of life and death. 

And supposing, he thought, as he swung along 


122 


BROKEN PATHS 


the street on his way to the club, supposing that 
he still cared? And she. . .could be made to care? 
What then? Could he, would he, return to this— 
the Chamberlin dinner world—-to smile a little 
and jibe a little at all the things he had come to 
regard as of most importance? Or would she be 
willing to throw it all overboard. . . and go back 
with him.to the silent desert, the lonely moun¬ 

tains, the wild ruggedness of nature untamed, which 
it was his privilege and duty to mold to the use 
of man?. 

Before Mrs. Emory dressed she slipped into 
Cecil’s room, and a warm feeling of satisfied pride 
stirred her heart as she looked at the girlish figure 
in its shimmering gown of blue that made the gold 
of her hair a halo, and paled into silver in the 
deeper blue of her eyes. 

“Pretty,” she said briefly. 

“I like it,” said Cecil. 

“You will wear Malcolm’s flowers?” 

“I’d rather not. I never wear flowers.” 

“Don’t be absurd. Wear them. It will please 
him to see them on you.” 

“If you think so—” The maid lifted the delicate 
sprays of lilies-of-tne-valley from the box. “I’ll go 
down to Colin and father while you are dressing.” 

“Do. I shall be ready directly.” 

Colin and his father were in the library, and 
Colin’s critical eye swept her from top to toe. 




BROKEN PATHS 


123 


“Stunning,” he said. “They don’t make ’em any 
prettier than you, Cecil.” 

A slight flush rose to her face; her father put up 
his hand and patted her shoulder. 

“You little darling!’’ he said, with a satisfied 
chuckle. “Leave it to your mother! What is it to 
be—the diamond tiara or pearls for a wedding gift? 
The pearls will cost more.” 

“Whatever you choose,” she said, “when the 
wedding—happens.” 

There was an uncomfortable silence. 

“I don’t know what you have to complain of,” 
said Colin. He was too self-centered to know when 
to let well enough alone. 

“I’m not complaining,” she said. “I don’t intend 
ever to complain again.” 

“I wish I could believe you, Cecil,” he answered. 
“It means a terrible lot to your only little brother. 
Muriel and I have discussed the thing thoroughly, 
and she agrees with me. We shall marry, even¬ 
tually, of course—but it is better to do it with the 
approval of all concerned.” 

“Muriel Carter isn’t a Catholic, Colin.” 

“Good gracious!” Colin’s feet came down on the 
floor. “I’m not marrying the religion, I’m marry¬ 
ing the girl.” 

“But Colin—” 

“I don’t see that it makes one bit of difference. 



124 


BROKEN PATHS 


For heaven’s sake where do you think you are liv¬ 
ing—in the convent?” 

“That will do, Colin,” said his father, quietly. 

“She should have stayed there if she wanted to 
go around with a face like this,” muttered Colin 
doggedly. 

“Had I wanted to remain in the convent I would 
not have come home,” said Cecil gently. “There 
was no choice, Colin.” 

Thomas Emory bent his eyes to the rug, for 
Cecilia’s words made him uneasy. He realized how 
completely he had grown away from the standards 
of the Faith. It was the easiest thing in the world 
to be swayed by his strong-willed wife, and to fall 
in with her ambitious plans, to lean on her keen 
judgment and to take her good advice, which had 
never led him astray. But Cecilia transported him 
to another sphere; she stirred a dormant conscience 
into life—a guilty conscience. He wished, impa¬ 
tiently, that she would not talk like this. . . that she 
would forget. . .once in a while— His wife’s voice 
was a pleasant interruption. 

“I hope it hasn’t been tiresome for you people,” 
she said smoothly. She was dignified and stately, 
and wore a single jewel on her black gown—a jewel 
that would have established a credit rating imme¬ 
diately for Thomas Emory had such been necessary. 
Arms and hands were bare, save for her wedding- 


BROKEN PATHS 


125 


ring—only that one beautiful gem, at which even 
Colin blinked. 

“It hasn’t been tiresome,” said Tom Emory, but 
his mood crept through his voice—a disagreeable 
mood. “Let us be going.” 

Colin drew his sister back out of their hearing. 

“When did you get that?” he asked, pointing to 
her ring. 

“Yesterday afternoon,” she answered. 

“And you set the wedding-day?” He was eager, 
hopeful. 

She made no answer. She was like a trapped 
squirrel, doomed to spend its little life treading a 
wooden wheel. Her mother’s ambition, her father’s 
indifference, her brother’s selfishness, were overpower¬ 
ing. Yet all were wrong. She was wrong to listen, 
wrong to temporize. She was fighting not alone 
for her life’s happiness, but her soul’s future, and 
there was no one to help her. She must fight it out 
alone, unsupported by anyone. And to leave it? 
Where would she go? No wonder Senator Hayden 
laughed at her. She had no refuge—no real friend 
—she would be heartsick, homesick— 

A sudden flash of anger drove the mist from 
her eyes. She lvas the daughter of this indomitable, 
proud, ambitious, worldly woman. She had strength 
of purpose, too, and principles which the older woman 
had forgotten! “And,” said Mother Philippa, “one 
can’t walk straight on a crooked road; or think 


126 


BROKEN PATHS 


straight with a crooked mind; or love God with a 
crooked heart.” Were her feet set on a crooked 
road? Perhaps. But her mind and her heart were 
straight, and she would retrace her steps. She did 
not yet know how—but the opportunity would arise 
and she would take it. 


Chapter VIII 


FATHER PAT AND OLD ERIN 
HEY were neither late nor early when they 



* reached the Chamberlins—Mrs. Emory could be 
depended upon for that. The Smith-Sheridans and the 
Harrisons were there, with Muriel Carter and Basil 
Torrens. The Teddy-Barnards always came in at 
the last minute. Ethel Chamberlin, bubbling with 
gaiety, greeted Mr. and Mrs. Emory, and both she 
and Muriel turned then to Cecilia with words of 
felicitations. 

“You are a darling,” said Muriel effusively. “I 
was so delighted when I read it yesterday—though, 
of course, we’ve all been expecting it! And you’ll 
make such a handsome couple! Malcolm is so dark 
and you—you shine like a star, a snow-lily! Doesn’t 
she, Colin? I don’t see how you can think any girl 
pretty after your dear sister!” 

“Perhaps I don’t,” he said, teasingly, and Cecilia 
Emory caught the deeper note in his voice. He was 
so different with Muriel Carter. He rejoiced in his 
complete subjugation—the more remarkable in one so 
frigidly, so obviously proper. All the world could 
look on—he was proud of being outrageously in 
love. This was another reason why such men as 


127 


128 


BROKEN PATHS 


Paul Chamberlin detested him, though Paul had not 
noticed his devotion until this evening. Now it 
amused him, and he joked about it under his breath 
to Tom Emory, who joked back, quite content and 
satisfied. None of them had the faintest idea that 
Cecilia was squirming under Muriel’s words. And 
that was but the beginning. Mrs. Smith-Sheridan 
had seized on Mrs. Emory, and smiling and bowing 
in a mechanical fashion Cecilia at last found herself 
gazing up at what she thought an enormous man— 
a young man who gazed down at her. He had the 
biggest smile, showing the whitest and strongest teeth 
she had ever seen; hazel eyes, too, with funny little 
wrinkles at the corners that looked as if they were 
made because the eyes were always smiling. 

“Mr. -" she repeated questioningly, for 

Ethel had darted away and left them together. 

“Torrens. . .Basil Torrens...” What a little 
thing she was, Cecilia Mary Emory! And what 
blue eyes. He liked the name. It fitted her; it 
fitted the flower-like face. 

“I wish you joy. Miss Emory,” he said. “Every¬ 
one seems to be doing that.” 

“Yes,” she answered, “everyone.” She glanced 
toward the doorway expectantly. Her one friend, 
the one who could really help her through, would 
soon put in an appearance. And even as she thought 
this, she heard Ethel Chamberlin’s laughing voice. 

“Doctor’s orders, he wrote me—and at once. He’s 



BROKEN PATHS 


129 


going back to his home town—owns a ranch out 
there, I believe. Senator Hayden hasn’t been a 
well man for years. . . Yes. . .he does take excellent 
care of himself, but he won’t return for some time 
now. I understand his last attack was very severe.” 

Basil Torrens was not paying attention; his eyes 
were on Cecilia’s face, across which there shot a 
look of such disappointment that he, having no 
trace of its source, turned his gaze also in the direc¬ 
tion of the door. And there stood, to his complete 
astonishment, Malcolm Travers himself! Malcolm 
Travers, who was approaching, laughingly parrying 
the merry chaff that was flung at him from all sides, 
who came nearer now, and caught Cecilia’s hand in 
his and held it, his eyes apparently seeing nothing 
but her, apologies on his lips. 

“Oh, Cecil, I am so sorry!” he began as he 
reached her side. “We had a break-down, and when 
I got hold of a taxi it was only to be caught in a jam 
at Broadway. Have they made it too hard for you?” 

“Oh, no,” she answered. “I didn’t care.” There 
was a queer fluttering in her throat. Subtly she 
sensed that these people had at last made up their 
minds to accept her as one of themselves, that Mal¬ 
colm Travers had drawn her through the portals. 
She thought of her mother, then, and raised her eyes 
to find her mother’s dark orbs bent upon her. An 
elated face, she thought, the eyes flashing, the lips 
curved. Did her mother sense that, too? Very 


130 


BROKEN PATHS 


quietly she slipped her fingers from that warm clasp. 
Only then did Travers seem to have a glance for 
anyone else, and now it rested on the big man, 
who was waiting for his recognition. 

“Torrens! How in the world did you happen to 
turn up here? This is fine! And how well you 
look! I’ve heard they grow things big in Kansas, 
but you mustn’t have started to grow until you got 
there.” 

“Only I didn’t happen to be in Kansas,” said 
Basil Torrens. 

“You’ve met—Miss Emory?” 

“Yes. I congratulate you with all my heart, 
Malcolm, and I hope you will be very happy.” 
They shook hands warmly. “As for being here 
—just my usual luck, and Paul and Ethel’s consid¬ 
erate pity!” He laughed again and Cecilia glanced 
at him with admiration. He looked like an outdo®r 
man; she was quite sure he’d be perfectly at home 
roughing it. . .Ethel Chamberlin came up then. The 
Barnards, always the very last to appear, had 
arrived, and Joyce Moore was still missing. She 
was getting a little nervous, though no one could 
guess that from her appearance as she took up Mal¬ 
colm Travers’ last words, overheard, and teased 
Basil Torrens on his Western air. And almost at 
that instant a hush seemed to fall on the group. Just 
a second it lasted, as if all in that room took a deep 
breath. Joyce Moore stood on the threshold, gazing 


BROKEN PATHS 


131 


about her with smiling graciousness. All trace of 
the hysterical attack of the day before had disap¬ 
peared. She was Joyce Moore, attractive, handsome, 
gracious of air and queenly of habit. Basil Tor¬ 
rens stood staring at her. He could not discern the 
difference of a day in her. She was as beautiful 
as she had ever been, but—and he realized it with 
a shock—her beauty no longer drew him! His were 
the eyes of a stranger, yet never had she seemed so 
lovely! Ethel Chamberlin greeted her, walking 
beside her half the length of the room. 

“You have saved me a bad moment—I was just 
beginning to worry.” She lowered her voice. “Basil 
Torrens returned yesterday. You are to sit with 
him.” 

Joyce smiled vaguely—as if the name meant noth¬ 
ing, as if she did not know that Ethel was offering 
her a plank in shipwreck. She was, they all thought, 
the jilted maiden. Her lips curved. As if it mat¬ 
tered what they thought! Cecilia, after that first 
glimpse of her, drew back and cast a furtive glance 
at Malcolm Travers. His face was impassive; he 
was smiling. But Cecilia felt that something had 
tightened within him like a taut string. . .was it 
that odd inflation of the nostrils. . . 

“I have met Miss Emory before. . .yes,” said 
Joyce Moore, charmingly. “And Malcolm, I saw the 
announcement yesterday. I hope you will be very 
happy. Basil!” Her smile did not vary in its 


132 


BROKEN PATHS 


friendliness. “So you’ve found New York again? 
Has the desert palled?’* 

“Not yet.. .1 mean to return. This is but a busi¬ 
ness trip.’’ Malcolm turned then, with a laughing 
remark, to Cecilia, and stood aside with her, focus¬ 
ing his attention on her. And every one of the four 
knew that all eyes were intent and all ears attuned. 
But there was no time for further observation. Din¬ 
ner was announced, and the guests were engaged 
in finding their places. Ethel drew a deep breath—• 
so far, so good! At least the ice had been broken. 

Cecilia was self-possessed enough, but she was 
mortally tired. She was always silent, and this 
silence had won her her reputation for stupidity. 
It was her refuge. A slow tide of indignation was 
rising within her—succeeding her depression. She 
had nothing in common with them—neither her father, 
nor her mother, nor her lover. Lover! Her lips 
curled. What a name to give a man of whom she 
thought so little! Husband? His cold determina¬ 
tion, his domineering manner yesterday—how it 
lingered with her—when, with stern mien, he had 
thought to awe her, forever robbed him of any 
chance of bearing that name. What! Exchange 
one tyrant for another? Never, never! She would 
escape from all tyranny! 

With the starting of the meal Ethel Chamberlin 
began to talk rapidly to Mrs. Smith-Sheridan, who 
was at the other end of the table. Mrs. Emory, 


BROKEN PATHS 


133 


grown uncomfortable, was aware of the embarrass¬ 
ment of their hostess, and knowing its cause, Mal¬ 
colm Travers was plainly amused. If Cecilia chose, 
in that frank and uncommon way, to bring a blessing 
on her food in the house of Dives, why not? She 
was his affianced wife, and as that, even now, she 
could do exactly as she pleased. What amused him 
most was the fact that Cecilia, the stupid and inane 
as they called her, in this one thing was like adamant. 
He reveled in the expression on Mrs. Emory’s face 
—and Colin’s. Slowly, quietly, her hand rose—to 
forehead, to breast, to both shoulders, palms touch¬ 
ing then an instant for its closing, the lids drooped, 
the head bent slightly. And Malcolm Travers, 
watching her, knew that if ever it was in his power 
to love Cecilia Emory it would be because of this 
supreme disregard for human respect. Joyce Moore, 
observing her, was startled, and a smile flashed over 
her face, like the ripple on a stream. There was 
a swift exchange of glances. Little Mrs. Barnard 
bent quickly above her plate. Not an action, not 
a look was lost. Even Torrens stared. 

“Why,” he exclaimed, involuntarily, to Joyce 
Moore, “is—is Miss Emory a Catholic?” 

“Didn’t you know it?” 

“No, I didn’t. She’s a stranger to me.’ 

“Superstitious, evidently,” answered the other girl, 
in a careless tone. “Why does she do that? Of 
what is she afraid?” 



134 


BROKEN PATHS 


“Afraid?” He looked at her in astonishment. 
“That’s a strange question. She is beginning her 
meal in the name of God, the Giver of all good 
gifts.” 

“Good gracious, is that it?” The words were 
contemptuous. “I thought it was something like 
that sign they use in Sicily—the horn, do they call 
it?—to keep away the evil eye. One never can 
tell what these Catholics believe.” 

Basil Torrens smiled at her warningly, remember¬ 
ing, with some astonishment, that even this would 
not have annoyed him in the girl he had thought he 
loved three years ago! And now—oh, it mattered 
very much indeed! 

“I am one, too, Joyce,” he said. “And you 
ought to be one. You have an Irish-Catholic name.” 

“What’s in a name, I ask to know, Mr. Torrens? 
And there are different sorts.” 

“Only two—the good ones and the bad ones.” 

“Please don’t try to intimate that you are a— 
good one!” 

“I’m betwixt and between,” he said, and they 
laughed, and at the sound of Joyce Moore’s musical 
laughter, Malcolm Travers’ eyelids quivered ever so 
slightly, his glance turning toward her.- How beau¬ 
tiful she was to him! There wasn’t another woman 
in the world like her. Torrens had paid her faithful 
attention three years ago—it was Torrens’ proximity 
and devotion that had made him insist on their engage- 


BROKEN PATHS 


135 


ment. And now Torrens could act as he willed . . . 
the road was clear . . . But was any road clear 

for any man where Joyce Moore was concerned? 

“Tell me,” Joyce Moore was saying, “have 
you enjoyed your change of surroundings? And 
don’t the comforts of home have strong appeal after 
doing without them so long?’’ 

“I’ve grown new lungs in the air of the West,” 
said Basil Torrens. “That for one thing. And the 
people are more honest. . .1 don’t mean my own are 
dishonest—but we tell the truth—” 

“Wanderer! And the women—” 

He hesitated. 

“I refuse to commit myself there,” he said. She 
laughed again, and Malcolm Travers heard. 

“I met a Mr. Sanderson at Harrisons’ two months 
ago,” she said, pushing her glass to and fro with 
graceful fingers. “He was telling us something of 
your mining work, and the death of an engineer— 
Ray Clarke. Did you know Ray Clarke?” 

“I worked with him,” he said gravely. 

“Of course. And this Sanderson said Basil Tor¬ 
rens was the only man who could tell the story of 
Shaft No. 3. It is an epic. So I made up my mind 
to hear it—if I ever met you again.” 

“Heaven save me from my friends!” said Basil 
with a grin. “Some day, perhaps, I may tell you 
the story, but not now. It’s too gruesome. And 


136 BROKEN PATHS 

Sanderson’s a newspaper man—why didn’t he 
tell it?” 

“He said he was under solemn promise not to—” 

“Oh! To the papers. But to you—” 

Her eyes met his daringly: “I choose to hear 
it from the one who has the best right to tell it.” 

“Look here, Joyce,” said Basil Torrens, “suppose 
we talk of something pleasant—you, for instance.” 

“Something pleasant? Myself, for instance?” 
Again she laughed, and Ethel Chamberlin looked at 
her almost enviously. Time wasted to pity Joyce 
Moore! Not even Ethel, with all her training, could 
simulate that laugh of pure amusement. At least 
she and Torrens were getting on. 

“I have no objections to being called that,” she 
said, “ but there is surely something pleasanter still. 
Now. . .Travers and Miss Emory? Or Colin Emory 
and the fair Muriel, at whom, when she thinks no 
one is looking, Ethel glowers as if she thoroughly 
disapproves—” 

“I know Colin Emory. He attended some lec¬ 
tures in Washington about five years ago. He is 
really clever.” 

“But for his affliction—an inflated brain,” said 
Joyce Moore, and Basil’s smile broadened. “He 
has never been properly handled, but he is coming 
to that state rapidly. Muriel has only one object of 
worship, and all must pay homage. If Mr. Colin 


BROKEN PATHS 137 

Emory does not make proper obeisance, she will send 
him on his lonely way.” 

There was no sting in the words, only the best 
of good nature, and he enjoyed it, for Joyce had a 
droll manner that lent aid to her purpose of being 
amusing. Malcolm Travers, devoting himself to the 
quiet, reserved girl at his side, absolutely forcing her 
into conversation in order to cover her reticence, felt 
curiously out of it. All at that table knew and 
appreciated Joyce Moore’s quaint raillery, but he 
had loved it. Everyone was so happy, so seemingly 
content; Ethel Chamberlin was beaming. Had 
Cecilia lifted her blue eyes to Malcolm Travers’ 
face, and repeated the thought that flashed into her 
brain she might have startled him. ‘‘The operation 
was a great success—but the patient died.” The 
dinner was evidently a great success, too, but Cecil 
knew. She knew the unrest in Colin’s heart, the 
ambition in her mother’s; she knew that her father, 
act as he might to the contrary, was out of his ele¬ 
ment, in spite of his attempt to play the gallant to 
smiling Mrs. Chamberlin. And Joyce Moore... 
and Malcolm Travers. .. 

She caught Malcolm Travers’ eyes fixed on her 
with a peculiar expression, then. She tried to exert 
herself to join in the light talk. A stupid dinner 
partner, she, indeed! She could have laughed at 
that. .. How little she cared! Perhaps after a while 
she could meet Joyce Moore and talk to her. 


138 


BROKEN PATHS 


She would probably freeze her to death. “But,” 
thought Cecil, with a half-smile at her own conceit, 
“Fm so used to being frozen that I think I could 
be comfortable at the North Pole.” She found 
herself, at last, seated beside the fireplace, and she 
saw that Joyce Moore and Malcolm Travers were 
standing together just inside the door. She smiled 
suddenly and settled back. 

Basil Torrens, gazing down at her, thought she 
looked like a very little girl who had been caught 
in some mischief. 

“May I sit here?” he asked. 

“Why, of course.” She saw him glance about 
the room, quickly, and knew that his eyes, too, had 
rested on the couple at the door, for his glance came 
back, very thoughtful. 

“I want to tell you that you made me feel a bit 
ashamed of myself. Miss Emory.” 

“I?” she questioned. “Oh, why?” 

“At the way in which you so openly acknowledged 
your Faith —our Faith,” he added. 

“Our Faith? Are you a Catholic?” 

«*T »» 

1 am. 

“Why, that is fine!” 

“Well, perhaps it isn’t so fine. I used to think it 
was fine—once. But tonight I discovered, for the first 
time in my life, that I am a moral coward.” 

“That’s not a nice thing to say of one’s self. But 
Fm a coward, too.” 


BROKEN PATHS 


139 


“Not in my way. I could not lift my hand to my 
forehead if—” 

“Oh, Mr. Torrens! The sign of the Cross. Is that 
it?” 

“Yes. It was—refreshing.” 

“Refreshing—to you? To me it means only one 
thing. It separates me from all the people in this 
room.” 

He gave her a startled glance. Her blue eyes 
met his calmly. 

“You tell the truth there. Miss Emory,” he said. 

“It is the one thing that will keep from being 
signed, sealed and ratified,” she said. “I cannot see 
your life as you see it. I am—too dull. And 
therein lies my happiness.” 

He looked at her, amused. 

“You feel too serious for this sort of thing? But, 
this is their playtime. Miss Emory. Youth is always 
serious. It is a fault you will recover from as you 
grow older.” 

She shrank. 

“I am not preaching. I do not know these people. 
They are probably very decent people, and good, too. 
Only I am out of my element.” 

“You think it is your religion? There are many 
Catholics—” 

“It’s my training—everything seems wasted. What 
are women for?” 


140 


BROKEN PATHS 


“To make the men of the world happy, and to 
help them to be good.” He spoke cynically. 

Cecilia laughed. 

“Well—that is one definition.” She was silent a 
few seconds. “How long have you been a Catholic, 
Mr. Torrens?” 

“I was always one. It was an inheritance from 
my father.” 

“And you find it difficult?” 

“Very difficult at times. Particularly at Easter and 
Christmas—when conscience takes its revenge.” 

“Why should you be bothered at Easter and 
Christmas?” 

“I go to confession then. It has always been my 
practice to do so.” 

“Practice! Easter and Christmas! Oh! Is that 
the kind of Catholic you are?” 

The surprised note of disapproval in her voice 
nettled him. 

“One would imagine that kind of Catholic didn’t 
count!” he said. 

“Oh, it counts, I suppose. At least you’ve a 
chance. . .if anything happens to you.” 

“You’re upsetting my peace of mind. Miss 
Emory!” 

“You see? I didn’t mean to be rude, but I don’t 
know how to be—well, I call it insincere,” she said. 
“I have illustrated my meaning, Mr. Torrens, at your 
expense. One must be pleasantly polite, no matter 


BROKEN PATHS 


14! 

what one thinks. Now you, for instance; I should 
not have said that to you. In business, few men, I 
imagine, have time for religion.” 

“I do not know,” he said slowly. “I have been 
but recently in a Nevada mining camp, and there 
were a number of men there of our Faith. They 
were very busy men, too—but none of us missed 
hearing mass when it was possible to do so, and the 
busiest of all used to arrange the altars for Father 
Pat when he came. Father Pat was a big, bluff, 
hearty, white-haired old priest. Miss Emory, and, 
strange to say, his last name was the same as your 
own—Emory.” 

“Father Patrick Emory!” Cecil said the name 
over. “Isn’t that—fine?” 

“But of course he isn’t a relative. He’s from 
Connemara, and proud of it.” 

Cecil’s eyes glowed. 

“My father is a Connemara man,” she said, and 
her simplicity would have sent Mrs. Emory into a 
spasm. “And he had brothers, too, for I often heard 
him talk of them before—some time since,” she 
added, “before I went to college. Wouldn’t it be 
strange.. .if we were relatives? And wouldn’t I be 
glad? A priest! Actually a priest!” Her voice 
thrilled, her hands clasped excitedly. “If ever I 
thought we had a priest in our own family I’d want 
to die with joy!” 

Basil Torrens was not easily moved, and his first 



142 


BROKEN PATHS 


impulse had been to laugh. But as she ended her 
sentence pity seized him. 

“You poor little waif!” he thought. “What in 
the world are you doing here? No wonder—” Aloud 
he said: “Where were you educated, Miss Emory?” 

“With the Ursulines,” she answered, and then 
looked up at him. “Please don't tell me my place 
is in the convent; if it were I wouldn’t be here. The 
trouble with us is that we don’t like to speak of our 
religion. We—keep it locked in a bureau drawer,” 
a look of mischief flashed into her eyes, “or renew 
our passports... or safeguards... at Easter and 
Christmas time, and then wonder why we are moral 
cowards!” 

“Well!” he floundered. “Well!” He could not 
reply to that and the pity of the moment before be¬ 
came something else. She was not thinking of his feel¬ 
ings in the least. 

“Father Patrick Emory...Pat Emory!” She 
repeated the words as if she loved them. 

“He has a gray mare he calls Old Erin,” con¬ 
tinued Basil Torrens, smiling slightly. “Just a sleepy, 
good-natured horse that can trot steadily for seven 
days and seven nights a week and sleep going! Father 
Pat does the same. He and Old Erin are always 
together.” 

The description fascinated her. 

“Would you grant me one favor, Mr. Torrens?” 
she implored. “Tell me how I may address him?” 


BROKEN PATHS 


143 


“I have the exact directions at hand,” he said, “in 
my bag at the club.” He had them in his brain, too, 
if he had cared to repeat them then. “Permit me to 
bring them to you—tomorrow afternoon?” 

“No—not tomorrow afternoon. I have an engage¬ 
ment. But the day following, unless you prefer to 
send them to me.” 

“Would you deprive me of the pleasure of bring¬ 
ing them to you?” he asked. 

Both he and she had forgotten that she was the 
promised bride of another. She flashed him a beam¬ 
ing glance. 

“Perhaps I shall share the pleasure, too,” she 
said. “It will be nice to see you again—” 

“Why, Miss Emory—I—” 

“There are at least a dozen things I want to find 
out—about Father Pat and Old Erin,” she added. 

“And if I can interest you in them, perhaps you 
will extend your interest to—” 

“Should the story be worth while I can promise 
even that.” 

Basil Torrens drew a deep breath. 

“I wonder,” he said, as he thought of that girl 
whom all called whatever name it pleased them, “I 
wonder how she manages to keep it up? Supposing 
they ever discover what is really going on behind that 
forehead of hers?” . . . 

“My word,” said Colin to his sister on the way 
home, “but you are coming on! I haven’t seen you 


144 BROKEN PATHS 

so interested in some time. What was your giant 
saying to you?” 

“What was he saying to me?” Cecil sat up 
straight in the car, and her eyes snapped. “Why, 
he asked me how much my father paid for Malcolm 
Travers—and why we didn’t keep him chained when 
Miss Moore was around!” 

There were three distinct varieties of gasps at 
that. 

“Cecil,” said her mother, “that is—vulgar.” 

“The truth, dear Mother,” said Cecil, “very 
often is.” 

And not one of them said another word. 


Chapter IX 

CECILIA AND MOTHER PHILIPPA 

C ECILIA’S appointment for the following after¬ 
noon was with Mother Philippa. No person 
in the world better understood another than this 
nun understood Cecilia Emory. Perhaps she under¬ 
stood her the better because she herself was slow of 
speech, reticent, thoughtful. But her interest was 
keen, her observation more keen. She was short, stout, 
wearing heavy glasses that made her small gray eyes 
appear even smaller. Her mouth was firm and well- 
cut, her nose prominent. At first glance the casual 
observer ignored Mother Philippa. She was “just a 
nun,” who had certain duties to perform, who was 
methodical, painstaking, extremely careful. As to 
what Mother Philippa was underneath, well, that 
is scarcely part of this story, save as it bears on 
Cecilia Emory’s. From the first sight of Elizabeth 
Garvan Emory, almost seven years before, and the 
slim flower-like girl who was her daughter. Mother 
Philippa was interested. She had never seen a 
greater contrast. And it is of a piece with all the 
wonderful things which she accomplished in her long 
life to say that she dissected Cecilia Emory’s charac¬ 
ter bit by bit, and realized that she must build the 
foundation first and then the structure. It would be 


145 


146 


BROKEN PATHS 


years before Cecilia Emory discovered herself—but 
when she did she would be a woman worth while. 
It was for this girl that the nun, knowing so well 
the life that Mrs. Emory was planning, had coined 
the phrase that formed the aim of Cecilia’s every¬ 
day course of living. 

“Well, my dear,’’ she said, in her quiet manner, 
“I gave you part of my Office yesterday and today. 
It is three months since you’ve been here.’’ 

“Yes, Mother,’’ said the girl, linking her arm 
fondly in the nun’s—she had never outgrown her 
school-girl habit, “but I’m positively twenty years 
older.’’ 

“Now that will bear talking about,’’ said Mother 
Philippa, “and not indoors, either. Twenty years 
older! Then you’re a fraud, Cecil.’’ 

“And a wicked one,’’ said the girl. “Oh, come. 
Mother, let’s get away. I have so much to ask 
you.’’ 

“We’ll go into the courtyard, then,’’ she said. “I 
feel the need of exercise these days, my child. Your 
teacher is getting old and fat.’’ 

“There’s a fraud, if you like,’’ said Cecil. “You 
can’t ever grow old, Mother Philippa. Fifty years 
from now I’ll crawl up that front door with a cane 
—and Mother Philippa will meet me. . . and say 
she is getting old and fat!’’ 

“Of course, Cecil, if you want to poke fun at 


mi 


BROKEN PATHS 


147 


“I don’t. Mother Philippa, but I’m in a mess, and 
I think it’s my own fault, and if you say it is—well, 
then, I’ll want to lie down and die; that’s all there 
is to it. And I never felt so abominably wicked in 
my whole life. I’m all bottled up inside, and if I 
don’t get some of it off my mind at once I’ll—I’ll—” 

“I won’t say you’re a fraud again, Cecil—but I 
will admit the twenty years if you talk like that,” 
said Mother Philippa, with a smile. “Here we are, 
my dear, so uncork the bottle at once before the 
explosion.” 

“Mother, look at that!” 

Cecilia held out her hand, and the afternoon 
sunshine glistened through the maple trees and fell 
on the sparkling stone that adorned her third finger. 

Mother looked—her gray eyes narrowing. 

“You’re engaged to be married, Cecil? And I 
suppose he isn’t a Catholic?” 

Cecil laughed. 

“No, Mother—not that. He is a Catholic, though 
not a very good one, but—” She paused a moment. 
“Well, it would be better to begin right at the start. 
His name is Travers—Malcolm Travers. I met him 
about two months ago at an affair given by people 
named Chamberlin. I believe this affair was our 
first step over the parapets of the inner fortress—at 
least Mother expressed it that way. Mr. Chamber¬ 
lin and Father were going into some deal together, 
and though it seems we had been declared ‘impos- 


148 


BROKEN PATHS 


sible’ not so long before, it was found, to the inter¬ 
est of all concerned, that such a word didn’t exist. 
You quite understand, Mother?” 

Mother understood, perfectly. 

*‘Somehow or other, Mr. Travers was introduced, 
and I thought him rather nice. I hadn’t the faint¬ 
est idea that he would care for me, but it seems— 
he did. He succumbed instantly to the sea-blue of 
my eyes, the sunrise of my hair, the coral of my 
lips, the—well, he was at my feet, anyhow, and 
my mother—” She drew her breath quickly. 

And again Mother Philippa understood. 

“I liked him. He is handsome—he is courteous 
—he is distant of manner—he is pleasant. I never 
imagined a lover better suited to my ideas, if I had 
any, than he. So, with Mother’s blessing, I gave 
him my word.” 

“You mean he asked you to marry him and you 
consented.” 

“Yes. Just that. You understand I wasn’t think¬ 
ing of getting married when I gave that promise—* 
but I knew I would have to and since he seemed 
so devoted and so satisfied and it made everyone 
so happy... I was really pleased at the agreement. 
Now there may have been comments made before 
me about certain things that had occurred previous 
to my existence. Of course, I am not supposed to 
have lived outside this charmed circle. But I made, 
just then, a few casual acquaintances—among them 




BROKEN PATHS 149 

a girl named Gladys Evans—and it was from her 
I first learned of Joyce Moore.” 

“And Joyce Moore is—” 

**J°yce Moore is the girl to whom, for three years, 
Malcolm Travers was engaged to be married. This 
engagement was broken—by her—before he asked 
me. And it seems that Senator Hayden, our old 
friend—you know Senator Hayden?”—yes. Mother 
Philippa knew him well—“didn’t approve of it at 
all. He said it was all for money—it was wrong— 
that Joyce and Malcolm are still very much in love 
with each other and that all sorts of trouble might 
arise if I married him. He said—my mother does 
not deny it—that it was really Father’s riches which 
were more powerful than the glamour of my sea- 
blue eyes and my sunrise hair. Mother Philippa.” 

The nun was silent an instant. 

“You are hurt, then, dear, and grieved...is that 
it? And a little resentful?” 

“No. I wish I were. Instead I find that I am 
very happy at the discovery, and overjoyed to think 
that I can rid myself of—well, of what I feel is an 
obligation that had begun to annoy me. I didn’t 
have one quiet minute after that in which I gave 
my promise. I was constantly tormented, and wor¬ 
ried, and anxious. The news was like a reprieve 
to a man condemned. It gave me an excuse. You 
know my mother—” 


150 


BROKEN PATHS 


Once more Mother Philippa understood. She had 
understood for seven years. 

*»nri • 0*1 *v*» 

1 here is more, Cecil ? 

“Yes. I told my mother and father. I told Sen¬ 
ator Hayden. I told Malcolm Travers himself. The 
first were frightfully displeased; the second was, I 
think, amused and a little credulous, the third absol¬ 
utely refused to allow me to break with him. The 
engagement is announced. All our friends have con¬ 
gratulated us, and now I must set the wedding-day. 
And I might remark that Colin, engaged to Muriel 
Carter, who is in the circle, has begged and implored 
me to do nothing at all until his affair is settled. And 
I don’t believe Colin has as much religion in him as 
would cover the head of a pin.” 

Cecilia could talk. Mother Philippa knew it. 
There were few others who had ever discovered it. 

“Only for Senator Hayden you might have just 
as little,” she said. 

“I know that—yes. I’m sure of it. I owe my 
education to Senator Hayden’s insistence. And my 
chief fault is that I want to take the easiest way 
always.” 

Mother Philippa nodded. 

“Exactly, Cecil. It is this fault of yours that is 
responsible now. You have made a regrettable mis¬ 
take.” 

Cecilia felt as if a cold wind were blowing on her. 



ONCE MORE MOTHER PHILIPPA UNDERSTOOD 


















BROKEN PATHS 


151 


“You did wrong ever to give your promise,” said 
Mother Philippa, “but you would do a greater wrong 
to that young man and yourself to keep it. Marriage 
without sincere affection on both sides, without a per¬ 
fect agreement to receive this Sacrament as God 
meant it to be received, to His honor and glory, and 
for the purposes for which matrimony was instituted, 
would be a sacrilege. Cecil, you must frankly and 
firmly go to your parents and in their presence and 
in the presence of this young man—the three together 
—you must confess your mistake and break your 
promise.” 

Cecilia drew free from Mother Philippa and threw 
both arms about her, kissing her again and again. 

“Child, child, you’re choking me!” said the nun, 
surprised. “What in the world—” 

“Don’t you see, darling Mother Philippa, I was 
worried about the moral end of it. I was afraid I 
might have an obligation—” 

“But why didn’t you bring it up in confession? 
The Father would have settled it immediately.” 

“Somehow, Mother, I didn’t want to speak of it 
in confession.” 

Mother Philippa’s brows met. 

“Why, Cecil?” 

“I—I couldn’t get the words out.” 

Mother Philippa’s lips shut tightly. Cecilia pressed 
closer to her. 

“Mother—you’re disappointed.” 


152 


BROKEN PATHS 


“Yes, Cecil. Child, you’ve got to take a firm 
stand in the world! Haven’t I told you so? Haven’t 
I shown you just what will happen to you if you 
allow people to ride over your good judgment? Cecil, 
you must learn to stand on your own feet! What is 
going to become of you? Here you have given your 
promise to contract a marriage from which you shrink 
—and yet, if you do not assert your desire for free¬ 
dom, you will actually go on with it. I know you! 
And unless you are persuaded, fully, that this is a 
marriage in Christ and in the Church, how dare you 
undertake it?’’ 

“Dear Mother Philippa, I don’t think I saw quite 
clearly, but I do want to say that I have fully 
determined never to go on with it. I want to tell you 
that my people would rather bury me than see me 
give him up. My mother writhes if I say one word. 
My father sets his mouth and looks at me. My 
brother—’’ 

“Look here,* Cecil. You’re planning something. 
What is it?’* 

“Mother Philippa, I’m going to—leave home—for 
a while.’’ 

“A cowardly thing, Cecil.’’ 

“No, Mother. True discretion.*’ 

Then Mother Philippa knew that the hard part 
of the battle had just begun. 

“Cecil, dear, the girl who leaves her home— 

Cecil’s hand tightened on her arm. 




BROKEN PATHS 


153 


“Some time ago, when Renie Ward and I left col¬ 
lege together, I promised her I would pay her a long 
visit. Last year I promised again. She is up in the 
Vermont Mountains. I intend to write to Renie 
Ward and ask her to give me a chance to accept 
her invitation.’* 

“But with your parents* consent, dear child.” 

“Mother, darling, if my tickets are bought and I 
am on the train, they can’t refuse.” 

“I still protest that you must do the honorable 
thing. Don’t you see that even if this young man has 
refused to break his engagement to you, if you give 
him up in the presence of your parents, his own pride 
will compel him to accept your word?” 

“Why,” said Cecil, slowly, “I believe. . .you’re 
right.” 

“Of course I am,” said Mother Philippa, encour¬ 
aged. 

“Nevertheless, I will write to Renie, in case—” 

“Oh, I have no doubt it will be pleasant to get 
away for a while. Write to Renie—though I know 
Renie so well that I am sure you could wire her this 
very minute and start with the wire. She needs no 
preparation to welcome you, Cecil.” 

“No, Mother Philippa,” said Cecil Emory. “Renie 
is one of those true-blue people that one needn’t see 
for twenty years, but who will just take up the 
threads again as if Time didn’t matter.” 

“Time doesn’t matter to real friendship, Cecil.” 




154 


BROKEN PATHS 


“But, Mother, darling, I shall write to Renie 
first —before I say anything at home. I want some¬ 
thing back of me—some place in readiness.” She 
shuddered. “My mother will — Well, Renie is miles 
from a railroad, and yet, you know, Mother would 
not hesitate to drag me away from there if she could 
without creating any scandal.” 

“Can’t you resolve to stay and face it, Cecil? 
After all, a mistake isn’t a sin, as the good old Father 
used to remark.” 

“Listen, Mother Philippa—I am on a crooked 
road.” 

“That can always be remedied.” 

“I’m finding the remedy now. And don’t worry; 
you won’t have to bear the moral responsibility alone, 
because I’m going to confession tomorrow and will 
settle that part. I have some money—Father has 
been very generous—so I shall not want for that. 
I am not frivolous—” 

“There are so many dangers in the world, child! 
And with your”—she was about to say beauty, but 
amended it. “You are so young!” 

“Yes—at twenty-two years old—I am young!” 
Cecil laughed. “Let’s change the conversation right 
now, dear Mother. I can’t tell you how you have 
helped me, and I’ll see it through.” 

Cecilia went home almost light-hearted, and that 
evening, before dinner, a letter was sent to Renie 
Ward. The very mailing of the letter made her more 



BROKEN PATHS 


155 


light-hearted still, and she visibly showed it, so that 
Mrs. Emory, looking at her and listening to her gay 
voice, was more than gratified. To her it appeared 
as if Cecilia had at last become reconciled, and that 
her dreams would come true! 

She was making afternoon calls when Basil Tor¬ 
rens paid his promised visit and he and the girl were 
quite alone for an hour. She was deeply interested 
in everything he had to tell her of the great West 
and of the good old priest, Father Pat Emory, and 
she made him describe the big Irishman again and 
again to her. Some of the stories, too, that he told 
her were such examples of ready wit and courage 
that Cecilia was charmed. She forgot herself, listen¬ 
ing enraptured, her blue eyes glistening, her lips 
parted; and Basil Torrens could scarcely conceal 
his admiration. 

“I wish you rvere Father Pat’s niece,” he said, 
“and could pay a long, long visit to Silver Lode. 
And that I was back at work at the same time to 
show you the wonders of the Sage-brush State—the 
deep valleys, the glorious mountains crowned with 
snow, the long trails, the little nooks and crannies 
which have, perhaps, been waiting for your foot since 
God created them.” 

His voice thrilled her—her lids half closed. 

“Oh,” she breathed, “it sounds like a fairy-tale.” 

“Yes,” he said, slowly, “like a fairy-tale. And 
oh. Miss Cecil, fairy-tales never come true!” 


156 


BROKEN PATHS 


“Don’t you think some of them—might?” 

He pointed to her hand, on which glittered Mal¬ 
colm Travers* ring. 

“This can’t; you belong to someone else,” he 
said. 

She looked at him, startled. 

“I mean,” he added, rather hastily, “that a visit 
to Father Pat of Silver Lode can never be anything 
but a fairy-tale to you.” 

“How long were you away, Mr. Torrens?” 

“Over three years. I saw the chance and took it. 
Besides, my invalid mother had just died, and I was 
glad to get off.” 

“And now are you glad to get back?” 

“I can’t say that I am. I thought myself really 
desperately in love three years ago, and I went 
away to forget.” 

“You—forgot?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then, of course, you only imagined you were in 
love?” 

“Perhaps so. Perhaps the man I was then T»as 
desperately in love. I have changed a great deal, 
I think. I was much attracted by this girl, but she 
was promised to another. So I drew out, of course, 
and the years of work and adventures, too, have 
helped to put her aside. In fact, when I thought of 
her at all it was as the happy wife of the man of 
her choice. It was a surprise to hear she had not married. 


BROKEN PATHS 


157 

And then—” he hesitated then, to ask himself why 
he spoke to her in this intimate fashion. Her gaze 
was so earnest, so thoughtful. “Why,” he exclaimed, 
“y°u have Father Pat’s eyes!” 

“Father Pat’s eyes!’’ She echoed the words. 
“Well, never mind,’’ she said, “just please keep on.” 

He showed his embarrassment. “I found out that 
the attraction no longer existed. Her beauty and her 
wit had charmed me. She is still as beautiful and 
as witty—’’ 

“But?” 

“She does not belong to us. And when I saw you 
make the sign of the Cross—” he did not, nor could 
he ever, add Joyce Moore’s comment on Cecil’s 
action—“then I knew she would never belong to us.” 

“But perhaps she cares for you?” 

“No, and she never did. And I am quite cured, 
so we can be good friends.” 

“That’s what I call a lovely ending,” said Cecil. 
She sighed a little. “It’s ever so much nicer to be 
friends than anything else. And I’m sure that even 
if this Father Emory isn’t a relative he’ll be a friend. 
And maybe some day I shall see him, and if all 
you’ve told me is true, I shall like him very much.” 

“I’ve only told you half, and if he isn’t a rela¬ 
tive . . . Your eyes are exactly the same shade— 

they have the same expression; little boy’s eyes, his, 
set in a rugged, weather-beaten face.” 

Cecil smiled happily. 



158 


BROKEN PATHS 


“You’re raising my hopes,” she said. “My father 
used to call me the child with his mother’s eyes, and 
he said that his oldest brother was the only one in the 
family that had inherited them from her. But now 
I won’t dare think of it. It is too good to be true.” 

They were interrupted by Mrs. Emory, and Basil 
Torrens glanced at the clock in dismay. He had 
stayed beyond all the bounds of good manners. He 
made his adieux at once, and Cecil’s mother was 
more than gracious. She had heard some excellent 
stories about Basil Torrens. He was of the right 
sort. His mother had been a V-, and his grand¬ 
father had been a J-. The words hummed in 

Cecil’s ears. She had the address of Father Patrick 
Emory, St. Joseph’s Church, Silver Lode, Nevada, 
safely hidden, and she looked at her mother with 
thoughtful blue eyes. 

“I think every family has a history, if one cares 
to bother,” she said. “And a pedigree, too.” 

“Oh, but the Torrens—” 

“Take Father. There was a big family, and yet 
Father knows nothing about any of them.” 

“Thank God!” breathed Mrs. Emory, fervently. 

“Well,” defended Cecil, “supposing one of his 
brothers were a priest—what then?” 

“I wouldn’t care if he were an archbishop—” 

“Oh, Mother! You don’t mean that! Just think! 
Wouldn’t you be glad if we had a priest of our 
own? Supposing now that I could discover a real 




BROKEN PATHS 


159 


priest—a real, actual, live priest, who was an Emory! 
Wouldn’t that make you happy...and proud?” 

Mrs. Emory set down her tea-cup with a clatter. 

“Cecil,” she said, “it would not. Will you remem¬ 
ber that you are no longer in the convent? If your 
father’s brother officiated in the nearest church, I 
wouldn’t go out of my way to see him! Religion 
... if I don't get enough of religion! Sometimes I think 
I shall be glad when you are married. You are a 
walking conscience.” 

“But—a priest , Mother—” 

“Cecil!” 

“Well,” she said, defiantly, “Father would be 
glad, I'm sure.” 

“If you knew how you annoy your father when 
you start on any religious topic, you’d be more 
careful.” 

“He ought to be annoyed!” burst out Cecil. 
“Why, he never goes to church!” 

Mrs. Emory held her head. 

“Cecil, if you go on like this after you are mar¬ 
ried, don’t come and complain to me if Malcolm 
Travers beats you! Sometimes I want to—well, 
never mind. If you discover any priests or bishops in 
the Emory family, you may have them all to your¬ 
self. Don’t share the pleasure with us. We don t 
want it.” 

Cecil’s eyes flashed curiously. 

“Very well. Mother. I shall remember.” 


160 BROKEN PATHS 

“Let us talk of pleasanter things,” went on Mrs. 
Emory. “You will be glad to hear that Muriel and 
Colin are engaged. They settled it at once—after 
your announcement there were no objections pos¬ 
sible. Perhaps we can have a double wedding. Colin 
is getting a ring for her the exact duplicate of yours. 
You two brides-elect will have to talk over a suit¬ 
able date at once.” 

Cecil’s lips twitched. 

“Yes, Mother?” 

“I am very happy, Cecil—oh, I am so happy! You 
children are making me happy. Did you and Mal¬ 
colm talk of a date the other day, when he gave you 
your ring?” 

“Why...no,” said Cecil, “we didn’t.” 

“Then I think the four of you should settle that 
at once! I’ll tell Colin so.” She stooped and kissed 
the golden head. “My little daughter, I have you 
to thank for this. Without your cooperation Colin 
never would have succeeded, but now—” Her voice 
trembled, and she left the room quickly, as if anxious 
to hide her emotion. And Cecilia, with all the peace 
of the last hour drained away from her, stood up, 
too, and went with slow steps to her own room. She 
closed the door, and locked it, standing at the window 
then, looking at the green trees of the Park, and 
below, the winding paths where people moved about 
their everyday affairs. And taking inventory, as it 
were, of her own character, she knew that she would 


BROKEN PATHS 


161 


marry Malcolm Travers unless she escaped from her 
mother’s influence. Her mother dominated her—had 
always done so. When she revolted against that im¬ 
perious will, her affections intervened and she would 
do anything in the world to please her, to bring a 
smile to her face. Two days of coldness completely 
subjugated the girl, and even as she planned her 
flight from the lot that her mother had ordained she 
knew it would cause her suffering. 

Yet it must be endured . . . 

That evening Malcolm Travers dined with them. 
“Muriel asked me what date you had decided on, 
Cecil,” said Colin. “I think she is rather keen for a 
double wedding.” They were looking at the engage¬ 
ment ring which Colin had taken out of his pocket to 
show to his father. Considering that Thomas Emory 
was paying for it, his son felt that he ought to be 
allowed to admire it. “What about it, Malcolm?” 

“What about it, Cecil?” said Malcolm Travers 
with a smile. 

“Why, I don’t know,” said the girl, vaguely. 
“Must we set a date? Why not let Colin and Muriel 
get married first?” 

Mrs. Emory made an impatient gesture. 

“Oh, come now!” said Thomas Emory. 

“Please, Cecil,” began Colin. 

“Cecil is going to do this all by herself,” said Mal¬ 
colm Travers, with an air of authority, and taking 


162 BROKEN PATHS 

her hand in his. “Some time next month? A June 
wedding?” 

“June tenth is your father’s birthday,” said Mrs. 
Emory. “Why not that date? That will give you 
five weeks of preparation—” 

“June tenth—shall it be on June tenth, Cecil? 
Today is the second of May—will you make it the 
tenth?” 

Cecil looked at her father. 

“Would that please you, Father?” she asked. 

“Why, of course it would, my dear,” said her 
father. “But don’t consult me—suit yourselves first.” 

“All right, then. The tenth—June tenth,” said 
Mrs. Emory. She breathed a sigh of relief, and 
Cecilia realized quite well that this date was not new 
to her mother. She had probably decided on it some 
time before. So! They had settled the date! 

Cecilia was silent as usual after that. Her father 
and Malcolm Travers kept up an active chat. Colin 
departed Muriel-ward and Mrs. Emory played the 
attentive mother to perfection. Malcolm Travers 
excused himself early. Her point won, the mother 
could now venture to be more critical. 

“You will have to exert yourself a little more if 
you intend to keep Malcolm Travers interested,” she 
said. “A dull wife is a poor companion.” 

Cecil had endured enough for one evening. 

“Is it necessary to exert one’s self for what one 
does not intend to keep?” she asked. “Or does Mai- 



BROKEN PATHS 163 

1 

colm Travers think he is marrying a professional 
entertainer?” 

“Cecil!” Mrs. Emory looked the shock these words 
gave her. “Do not be commonplace. And you will 
discover that a husband is occasionally glad of a 
little conversation.” 

Cecil left the room hotly rebellious. 

When she had cooled off she began her letter to 
Father Emory—and in a queer spirit—with the 
desire of forgetfulness, a wish to put thoughts of the 
present away from her. What did it matter? An 
old weather-beaten, busy man, who never had a 
moment to spare from his many duties—he would 
never take time to answer it. . . 

When Cecil Emory was ten years older she read 
that letter with an amused smile for the little girl 
who had written it. For it was a little girl’s letter, 
oddly interspersed with some of the quaint wisdom 
learned from Mother Philippa, yet which indicated 
what the little girl would be when grown to woman¬ 
hood. 

She told him about herself and her people, and 
of meeting Basil Torrens, who had mentioned his 
name and given the priest’s address at her earnest 
solicitation. 

“Long years ago,” she wrote, “at least it seems long 
years ago to me now, my father used to tell us odd 
stories of his birthplace among the Connemara moun¬ 
tains, and describe the trees and the thick growing 


164 


BROKEN PATHS 


ferns where the fairies hid away, the royal fern and 
the maiden-hair, the chestnut trees and the beeches, 
the elms, the sycamores, and Our Lady’s ash tree 
which grew at the head of the Glen. He would tell 
us about the moonlight nights among the ‘Killeries* 
and how lovely it was to see—and none could see it 
out of Ireland—the long slivers of silver painted on 
the mountain-sides and the moon face winking and 
smiling over her work, with every lake a looking- 
glass. And is it true that there were giants in the 
olden days and that they used the big rocks on the 
top of the hills for play toys? And he told us how 
my grandmother used to make woollen stockings for 
all her boys—she had but the one girl!—spinning her 
wheel during the long winter nights by the turf fire. 
And he said—once—that he’d give a little money 
if I could sit by that fire, too, and learn some of the 
lilt that my grandmother sang. 

But as Cecil wrote she was back with her father 
in a very far distant past indeed. A wee girl of six 
or seven, then, “the flat in Sixty-fifth street’’ was para¬ 
dise, and her father used to sit in his shirt-sleeves of 
an evening and smoke his pipe and tell his tales of 
“home”—terrifying tales, and blood-curdling, some 
of them, that sent her shivering to bed. He had a 
fund of the folk-lore of his country at the tip of his 
tongue and “the child with his mother’s eyes’’ brought 
it back to his mind, and he rehearsed it all. She had 
never forgotten. 



BROKEN PATHS 


165 


“And if you are indeed related to me—and oh, 
I hope you are!—will you tell me the name of the 
song my grandmother used to sing of nights?** 

And in a postscript: 

“When I was speaking to Mr. Torrens, he said 
I was the only one he had ever met with eyes like 
yours. And my father used to call me, then, ‘the 
child with my mother’s eyes.’ 

“And maybe my wish will come true,’’ she ended, 
“if I sign myself, as I hope I am, 

“Your affectionate niece, 
“Cecilia Mary Emory.*’ 


Chapter X 

INTRODUCING FATHER PAT 

W HEN the big man loosened the rope that held 
his lanky gray mare to the sapling, he 
stood with it between his fingers, a thoughtful 
expression on his face. Then, shoving the soft black 
hat farther down over his eyes, he mounted, settling 
himself in the saddle. Old Erin turned her nose 
to the trail—she was a little anxious to get home—but 
her rider held her in, slouching forward, the reins 
gathered loosely, a queer expression in his eyes, had 
one been able to see them. The mare threw up her 
head, and whinnied loudly, asking, in her own fash¬ 
ion, the cause of the delay. 

“It’s the other road for us tonight, Erin, my col¬ 
leen,” he said, “and don’t be fooling about it, either, 
but turn about and go.” He pulled the rein as he 
spoke and the animal turned under his guidance— 
and obediently followed his lead up the straight 
path that lead over the hills. Here, after about ten 
minutes smart riding, they came to a gully. Erin 
stiffened her forefeet determinedly, but a sharp word 
sent her over, bracing and sliding until they reached 
the bottom, then up again, crawling, inch by inch, 
until they got to the opposite slope. There was bet¬ 
ter ground here, the bunched grass giving her a foot- 


166 



BROKEN PATHS 


167 


hold, and Old Erin’s speed increased. Presently they 
turned into a steep-sided ravine with a strong river 
rushing and roaring at the bottom. The walls were 
sometimes sheer cliffs of rocks, and again there were 
long slides of gravelly ground. An obscure trail 
indeed, and hard going—a trail worn by the action 
of the river and the weather. On a wider strip of 
it the big man halted Old Erin, and glanced quickly 
at the sky. It was still a light blue up there between 
the mountains, but down here it had grown dark, and 
when he pulled a little black book out of his pocket 
he found that he could not see to read. So he dis¬ 
mounted and sat close to the rock, with Old Erin 
standing with her nozzle on his shoulder, a little 
uneasy, he could tell, for she was a “knowledgeable 
beast.” She seldom came this way with him, and 
never at nightfall. He rubbed her nose comfortingly 
and held it close to his neck, speaking to her in a 
soothing voice. Her head dropped. If he were sat¬ 
isfied, she would be. 

Night came quickly — suddenly — perhaps the 
watcher had dozed a little, for when he glanced up 
again the patch of blue was gone and down upon him 
shone a thousand stars. The moon was already 
rising, but it would be an hour before it pierced 
the gloom of the dark ravine. He struck a match 
and looked at his watch. When he saw the time 
he got up stiffly and drew Old Erin’s rein closely 
around his arm. There was barely room for the 


168 


BROKEN PATHS 


two of them on the narrow path, but he did not want 
to put his weight on her; the going was too hard. 
The mare went slowly, turning her head every once 
in a while to be quite sure that her master under¬ 
stood what he was doing. They had picked their 
way like this for about ten minutes when a sound on 
the path ahead of them sent Old Erin’s ears erect. 
She stood still, but he urged her on until she reached 
a sort of flat space which had seemingly been scooped 
out of the solid rock to form a safe spot for camp¬ 
ing. As they stepped out Old Erin, still with ears 
alert, moved closer to the sheer granite wall. Gently 
patting her now, her master faced two men, one 
slightly in advance of the other. The moonlight 
struck the polished steel of the rifle that was held 
in the hands of the second rider, while the first 
dropped lightly to the ground from his horse. 

“Up with your hands!” growled the holder of the 
rifle in a surly tone. 

The other man now came forward—a menacing 
figure on that long trail, but not a word spoke the 
owner of gray Old Erin—just stood and looked at 
them. 

“Up, up!” growled the surly voice again. 

“It’s a funny trick to be playing on an old man 
like me,” was the remark. “Much good ’twill do 
either of ye to stick me up. Get down off that 
horse, Loco Dan, till I give the both of ye my 
blessing.” 


BROKEN PATHS 


169 


“Father Pat!” 

The rifle wavered. The man approaching him 
fell back, then turned as if to mount his horse and 
fly. But Father Pat waved his hand. 

“Come back here, Jack—and you, too, Dan. I’ve 
something to say to the both of ye. Yes, you, Dan 
... I mean you. Get off that horse this minute and 
come here where I can look at you. You’re not 
mine, Dan, but my blessing won’t hurt, so you’ll 
have to take it before you go. Down on your two 
knees, both of ye!” 

They knelt, gingerly enough, and Father Pat 
made the sign of the Cross over them. Loco Dan 
sprang up then, vaulted into the saddle and set out 
at a smart pace along the trail, anxious, indeed, as 
Father Pat well knew, to put as much space between 
the priest and himself as possible. The first man 
moved more slowly, but when he grasped the pom¬ 
mel of the saddle Father Pat’s grave voice arrested 
him. 

“Jack,” he said. “Jack Bidwell! Listen to 
me!” 

The man paused irresolutely. 

“You’re in mighty bad company, Jack,” said 
Father Pat. “Loco Dan’ll never stop at anything, 
and he and Rufe Thomson aren’t long for Silver 
Lode if they keep on. There’s a crowd of indig¬ 
nant citizens making ready to ride ’em on a rail 


170 


BROKEN PATHS 


in the near future, and you might make a third party. 
Jack—you might make a third.” 

“Well—” The man shrugged his shoulders. 

“It’s not a bit well,” said Father Pat, gravely. 
“You’re one of mine and you’ve gone about as far 
as you’re going to. I got wind that Rufe and 
Loco were planning this little bit of pirating along 
the Lode trail, so I thought I’d be on hand to watch 
how you did it. Marvin’s messenger went out by 
Deer Creek road—it’ll take him an hour longer, 
but he’ll get to Barnabas ranch with the money-belt 
safe. What do you mean by it all, Jack? You’re 
going from bad to worse—so now we’ll have an 
end of it. Kneel here in the path beside me, make 
a clean breast of all you’ve ever done, and start 
straight tomorrow.” 

“Are you. . .do you want me to go to confession?” 

“And what else? Sure you’d tell the story of a 
roving life to amuse a roomful of cronies over there 
at Startin’s, wouldn’t ye? Now you’ll tell it here, 
without the trimmings, to a God Who will forgive 
you and help you to do right.” 

“But it’s twenty years—” 

“Then I’m sure that’s long enough.” 

“But i can’t remember—” 

“I’ll help—that’s what I’m here for—to help. 
Come now, man! You’re not afraid of God, are 
you? And you wouldn’t want to pass on in the way 
you are now?” 


BROKEN PATHS 171 

“No, I wouldn’t. Father Pat.” 

“All right, then. It’s a glorious confessional we 
have here. God’s made it for us—just for us. His 
stars peeping down at us and all the great saints that 
fought the good fight—harder ever than yours. Jack 
—rejoicing. Come on, lad. We’ll begin back there 
. . . after the first communion day.’’ 

Three hours later Old Erin wearily poked her 
head over the half-door of her rude stable, and 
waited while Father Pat unlatched it. And Father 
Pat, though wearier still, gave her a rubbing down 
and fed and watered her before he went in to pre¬ 
pare his own meager supper. The little shack, 
adjoining the stable, was typically a miner’s cabin. 
It consisted of two rooms, with rough, unplastered 
beams, and a floor of hard mud. There was a 
blackened fireplace, and a rough pine shelf which 
held various articles of food. In the center of the 
room stood a pine table, unpainted, and two chairs. 
On the table was a kerosene lamp which Father 
Pat lighted. There was no adornment, not even 
comfort. The window was an opening in the logs 
with a piece of blanket drawn across it. But on the 
wall above the window was a crucifix and beneath it 
a white card affixed to the bark with a tack. It 
bore two words: The Master . And this crucifix 
and those two words explained Father Pat’s work 
and his life. He glanced up at the white figure, an 
aspiration on his lips, before he bent to kindle the 


172 


BROKEN PATHS 


fire on the hearth, shoving over the coffee-pot. Then 
he took some hard bread from a tin on the shelf 
and opened a can of beans. This was Father Pat’s 
luxurious supper, and he had not touched food since 
he had shared the midday meal of a miner—coffee, 
flapjacks and bacon. It lacked but a half-hour of 
midnight. He pulled out his watch to make sure, 
then prodded the twigs and shoved them in closer 
under the pot. Then an unfamiliar object on the 
table caught his attention. It was a letter, and on 
another piece of paper, roughly scrawled, were the 
words: “Came through Silver Lode this morning 
and brought this letter from post to you. Bill Ganz.” 

“A letter for me!” ejaculated Father Pat. “A 
letter for me! Now, who—” 

He picked up the square envelope with its girlish 
writing: “Father Patrick Emory,” he read, “St. 
Joseph’s Church, Silver Lode, Nevada.” 

Cecil’s letter had arrived. 

The coffee boiled in the pot, the beans lay 
undisturbed upon the plate, and the missionary, who 
had given the best years of his life to God in strange 
places was kneeling on the ground and sobbing as 
only a great-hearted man can sob, his white head 
buried on his arms. 

And then . . . little trickles of speech from a full 
heart. . .words that overflowed. .. 

“So Tom’s alive! Tom’s alive . Thanks be to 
God! 


BROKEN PATHS 17? 

‘‘Cecilia Mary! My mother’s name! The child 
with my mother’s eyes! 

“Ah!... the turf fire. . . and the wool in her hands 
. . . and the hum and the whir of the wheel. . . and 
the music on her lips! Oh, Tommy, Tommy, what 
happened ye at all that you never thought of the old 
folks once you got away from them. .. 

“And we prayed for your soul! Think of it! 
We prayed for your soul... 

“Cecilia Mary! It’s the ways of God are won¬ 
derful, asthore! And Tommy’s alive! Who’d ever 
thought to find Tommy alive. Sure even poor 
Malachy Finn—God rest him!—wrote home that 
he’d met his death in the yards. .. 

“Is it write to ye? Indeed I will, Cecilia Mary! 
And the song my mother sang—it’s well I know it 
and I hope God grants me the joy of hearing it one 
day from your own lips, asthore” . . . 

“An’ sure, Father Pat,” said Michael O’Brien, 
the following noontime, “has some one made ye the 
present of a million dollars—or a horse or a sputty- 
wagon? Or is it a new church, mayhap? For you 
look as if ’twas any of them or all of them wrapped 
into one...An’ what’s the song you’re singing? It 
sounds mighty familiar to me.” 

“It should be,” said Father Pat, smiling at his 
faithful helper and nearest neighbor, who lived a 
half-mile farther on “at the bend of the trail,” 


174 BROKEN PATHS 

with his good wife Nora. “It should be, Michael 
O’Brien.” 

And he sang in a rich tenor voice: 

“Let Erin remember the days of old 
Ere her faithless sons betrayed her. 

When Malachy wore the collar of gold 
Which he won from the proud invader.” 

And old Michael caught up the air: 

“When her king, with standards of green unfurled. 

Led the Red Branch Knights to danger, 

Ere the emerald gem of the western world 
Was set in the crown of a stranger.” 

The two exiles looked at each other when they 
had finished—then, instinctively, their hands went out 
and clasped. 

“God be with the good old days,” said Father 
Pat. 

“An’ bring dead and living to the sight of heaven. 
Amen,” said Michael O’Brien. 

Silence a few moments then, for both of them 
were back in the past. 

“It’s a niece of mine,” explained Father Pat, and 
was there not a bit of pride in his voice? “She’s writ¬ 
ten to me. It was Torrens. \ou remember 
Torrens?” 

“Oh, ay! A likely lad was Torrens.” 


BROKEN PATHS 


175 


“Well, then, he met the child and got talking to 
her—she must be about fourteen or so—judging from 
her letter. ‘Long whiles since/ says she, talking of 

her daddy’s tales of the old country. And a week 

is ‘long whiles’ to the young. I’ll be writing to her 
today, God bless her! Sure she’s given me the 
greatest happiness I’ve had since Dunny’s dance hall 
burned down. There’s not a bit of a mistake about 
it, Michael O’Brien. I was the oldest of the family, 
and the only O’Flaherty of them all! The rest 
were Emorys. But I took after my mother’s fam¬ 
ily in build, and I was the one with the color of 

her eyes. I used to be rare proud of that in those 

days. Tm the O’Flaherty!’ I’d say when I wanted 
to get them going, and many’s the sound scolding 
I got for it, God rest my poor mother and father! 
And now the child is writing to me and bringing 
it all back. . . and yet behind it all it seems to me 
as if I’m sensing something not altogether right with 
her. No word does she write about Tom or her 
mother, and whether they’re poor or comfortable, nor 
of what he might be doing. Of course I can’t ask 
too much—” 

“Not when she wasn’t sure who she was writing 
to,’’ appended Michael O’Brien. “Would you— 
would you mind reading the letter to me. Father 
Pat? I’d be mortal glad to hear it, an’ as you 
know, I haven’t the English.’’ 

“Ay!” said Father Pat, laconically. He pulled 



176 


BROKEN PATHS 


the square envelope from his pocket and opened it, 
his fingers shaking a little. Father Pat would not 
see his sixty-fifth birthday again, and this letter had 
stirred him to the very depths of his warm Irish heart. 
He read it through, slowly, carefully. 

“It’s a grandsome letter,” said Michael O’Brien. 
“It'll be something to tell herself when I go back 
to the house.” 

“And if she wants to hear it, tell her to come on 
down,” said Father Pat magnanimously. “Tell her 
I’ll read it to her—for I know ’twill be like a breath 
of home to her.” 

“Let Erin remember the days of old 
Ere her faithless sons betrayed her. 

When Malachy wore the collar of gold 
Which he won from the proud invader.” 

The martial strain set his pulses beating. He 
passed his hand over his eyes several times to wipe 
away the film that gathered. Memory was keen. . . 
and sure he could see his mother’s face. . .her smiling 
face and the deep blue of her eyes. . .God bless old 
Tommy! Whatever his fortune, good or bad, he 
had evidently brought up a dear little girl with a 
warm heart. And he had not forgotten the old days, 
either, else how could the little child have them all 
so pat, at the ends of her fingers? He whistled under 
his breath as he took pen and ink from the narrow 


BROKEN PATHS 177 

shelf and began his reply to his little niece, Cecilia 
Mary. 

He wrote rapidly, for words come quickly when 
the subject is dear to one’s heart. Page after page 
he filled, nor did he think of the passing of the time 
until, at last, it was ended, and he sat reading it over. 
It was for “Tommy” as well as for Cecilia Mary, 
that letter, and much of its history was written because 
he felt that his brother’s eyes would rest on it—the 
last one but himself left of their big family. Did 
he know their only sister, Mary, was dead—had died 
in Dublin in the convent there? He looked for a 
place to insert this bit forgotten, but the sound of 
hoofs on the trail made him start up from the table 
and go to the door. Outside stood a man with 
a bridle looped over his arm. 

“Father Pat! You’re wanted bad. Jack Bidwell’s 
been hurt and they sent me after you.” 

“Jack Bidwell! Good gracious man, how—” 

“Yes, Father. He and Rufe and Loco Dan 
got into some kind of an argument, and Loco Dan 
shot him. He’d ought to have more sense than 
hitch up with that crazy steer, anyhow.” 

“Well. ..” Father Pat made a hopeless gesture 
with his hands. 

“Loco’s never right, even when he’s sober,” went 
on the man, “but in drink—I think the devil’s got 
that fellow branded, Father Pat.” 

“Don’t say that, Ned. We’re all branded with 


178 


BROKEN PATHS 


the Cross—and it’s the devil’s business to burn that 
off us if he can. Even Loco Dan has " the Lord’s 
brand on him somewhere.” 

“Maybe, Father Pat, but he’s strayed mighty far 
from the corral. At any rate Jack’s wanting you. 
He’ll last till morning, Doc says, and he can’t be 
satisfied till he sees you. It’s something he wants 
to give or tell you—” 

“I’ll go now. Where is he—at Startin’s?” 

“Yes, Father.” 

“You’re going back to Startin’s?” 

“No, Father, I’m going on to the station. I’ll 
leave old Darby here in O’Brien’s stall and catch 
the coach at the turn.” 

“Good boy! I have a letter you can mail for 
me. Will you take good care of it, Ned? It’s a 
precious letter to my own little niece in New York, 
and she’ll be sore disappointed if she doesn’t get it. 
You’ll be careful?” 

“I will, Father, I sure will.” 

“Fine!” He brought out the letter. “Put the 
stamp on it—I have ne’er a one in the house—and 
here’s a bit of change—” 

“Father Pat!” The man looked embarrassed. 

“Well, all right. No harm meant. You’ll put 
the stamp on it, then—that’s a lovely name she has, 
don’t you think so, Ned? Cecilia Mary! *Twas my 
mother’s.” He whistled and Old Erin poked her 
nose over the top of the stall, then pushed through, 



BROKEN PATHS 


179 


coming to him. “She has blue eyes, too, like sap¬ 
phires, just ready to turn black, or cornflowers—that 
was the color of my mother’s eyes.” He had lifted 
the saddle from the door as he spoke. It was on 
Old Erin by this time, and now, clapping his 
weather-beaten black felt hat on his head, he mounted 
quickly. 


“I’m off, Ned. Don’t forget my little girl’s 
letter.” 

“I won’t. Father,” said Ned, earnestly. “An* 
I’ll put the biggest stamp on it that I can find in 
the post office.” 

Father Pat smiled at that, but the eyes under the 
rusty hat brim were anxious. It took him three- 
quarters of an hour to get to Silver Lode, a rambling 
one-street town, with a few straggling houses and 
Startin’s. Startin’s was the principal store, hall and 
hotel, and though the proprietor did his best to pre¬ 
serve law and order, there had been many violations 
of both. Startin’s dance hall had risen on the ashes 
of a similar building that had preceded it, owned by 
a man named Dunny, and when Jim Startin laid 
the first beam, Father Pat called on him. 

“Business is business, Jim,” he said. “Sometimes 
it’s the devil’s business, and Dunny’s was that. I’m 
not asking you to run any prayer-meeting or tea 
parlor, but I am asking you to play fair with the 
boys. Give ’em a square deal for their money.” 

“Father Pat,” said Jim Startin, “I’m in this for 


180 


BROKEN PATHS 


honest coin, and I promise you I’ll be decent and 
straight. I can’t help it if a bad gent gets loose on 
these premises, but I promise to hog-tie him as soon 
as he hollers.” 

“That suits me,” said Father Pat. “Shake!” 
And they shook hands. The compact had been 
kept. Startin’s was a “decent place,” and the boys 
who rode in from the neighboring ranches soon found 
it out. A few of them had to be “hog-tied,” but 
one or two lessons proved sufficient. Jim Startin 
lounged up to Father Pat’s side now as he swung 
down from Old Erin’s back. 

“Sorry, Father Pat,” he said, “but I wasn’t around 
or Loco Dan wouldn’t have got away.” 

“So he did get away?” 

“Yes. There’s a couple of boys out after him. 
They’ll bring him in. Jack’s a bit easier, though. 
Doc says—” He made a motion with his hand and 
Father Pat nodded. 

“All right, Jim. I’ll go to him.” 

He spoke to the men who were clustered about 
the door, and they made room for him, for all 
respected Father Pat and some of them loved him. 
Jack Bidwell was lying in Jim Startin’s bed. His 
eyes were closed—but they flared open as the priest 
touched his hand. 

“I knew I was all right,*’ he muttered. 

“Yes, thank God,” said Father Pat “You’ve 


BROKEN PATHS 181 

made your peace—and you’ve made it in time. 
Jack.” 

“Well, Loco thought I told you about it—that 
I tipped you off so that you could steer Marvin’s 
man. Especially when I stayed on—you know what 
for. I wasn’t taking anything from him, either— 
he’s been no sort of a pal, but he’d given me a hard- 
luck story and I fell for it. And now, lying here, 
I don’t think I care much—maybe I’m glad. I don’t 
think I’d ever be able to walk the straight and 
narrow.” 

“Yes, Jack, you would. God helps.” 

“Maybe, then, this is how He has helped me,” 
was the reply, with a twisted smile. “At any rate. 
I’m going out. And there’s my little boy back east. 
He’s at school—his name’s John Bidwell, the same as 
mine. There’s nothing but straight money in 
the bank for him. I never spent a cent on him that I 
got crooked. There’s enough in that bankbook to cover 
him for the next seven years—by that time he’ll have 
got his start. He’s ten now. Would you get in touch 
with him, Father Pat?” 

“My dear boy, I surely will.” A revelation of 
this sort was nothing new to the priest. In his twenty 
years among the western hills he had heard tales 
which no romance-maker could excel. “And has 
the boy a mother. Jack?” 

“No, Father Pat. She died when he was born. 
She was my second wife. The first... I was divorced 


182 


BROKEN PATHS 


from her. She wasn’t a Catholic and there was 
always trouble between us. A girl we had. . . she’s 
a young lady now, if she’s alive, but I never heard 
from her and never wanted to. That was a hell, 
that life. My name ain’t Bidwell, either. That 
belonged to an old pal that got shot up in Dale 
City. You’ll find papers in my box—they’ll tell 
you all you will have to know. You’ll. . .do what 
you can for the boy. Father Pat?” 

“Is he in a Catholic school?” 

“No, Father, but in that paper—Jim Startin 
helped me make it out—you’re guardian; and Jim 
put his seal to it, too, so it’s legal. And you can do 
whatever you like, so long as you just see that he 
goes straight where I went crooked.” 

“I’ll do that,” said Father Pat, earnestly. “Now 
put all these things out of your mind, Jack. God’s 
waiting for you somewhere along the trail and when 
you catch up with Him you want to be able to talk 
to Him right. I'm here to get you ready—God’s 
priest in God’s place. Trust your boy to God and 
me, and God will do it all. Come now. As soon 
as we have had another little chat together, we’ll 
prepare you for the journey. And if there’s time, 
and you live so long, I’ll bring Him to you tomorrow 
morning.” 

But he knew Jack would not last. His strength 
was ebbing even then and after the anointing, Father 
Pat stayed close while the soul of the wanderer went 


BROKEN PATHS 


183 


on over the Border. Nor did he leave until the 
hands grew cold in his clasp, nor until he had rev¬ 
erently closed the lids and crossed those hands upon 
the quiet breast. 

“Gentlemen/’ said he to the men outside, “Jack’s 
gone on. He’s safe and has made his peace with 
God. I’d advise ye all to look into things just 
about now. Life’s mighty uncertain among these 
hills, and there’s a few of you need a general house¬ 
cleaning. When you’re ready, I am.” 

They shuffled uneasily. No one spoke as he 
mounted Old Erin and rode away. 


Chapter XI 
CECILIA DECIDES 


B ASIL TORRENS was now a steady visitor 
at the Emory home, and as the date for the 
wedding drew nearer—and it was indeed to be a 
double one—Mrs. Emory relaxed her watchful 
attention to Cecilia’s every action. She did not think 
it necessary to speak the word of caution she would 
surely have uttered had the marriage not been close 
at hand. Neither did she try to discover how mat¬ 
ters stood between the girl and the young man who 
was to lead her to the altar. She had not the faint¬ 
est idea that Cecilia carefully avoided Malcolm 
Travers, that she was never alone with him, and 
that whatever courtship was being conducted was 
going on under the eyes of all who cared to look. 
As for Malcolm Travers, he was a little grateful 
that his bride-to-be exacted nothing, amused at what 
he considered her convent outlook on life, and 
supremely confident that she would do exactly as 
he chose when she bore his name. Had she not 
always been an easily controlled daughter? Besides 
that, being a young fellow who had never, until 
recently, gone in for serious things, he found Tom 
Emory and Paul Chamberlin’s enterprise fascinat¬ 
ing, and had astonished the older men by the facility 


184 



BROKEN PATHS 


185 


with which he grasped details. “The fellow really 
has a top-piece,” Tom Emory told his wife. Basil 
Torrens, moreover, was a visitor accepted and wel¬ 
comed by all the members of that magic circle which 
had opened to include Mrs. Emory’s own self. She 
was happy, and since happiness bestows content and 
creates beauty, Mrs. Emory was a contented woman 
who seemed to blossom into new attractiveness with 
every passing hour. 

From Renie Ward in the Vermont hills came a 
long and enthusiastic letter to the dearest “pal” of 
her college career. She invited her to remain with 
her as long as she pleased, and pictured the attrac¬ 
tiveness of the simple life as lived by her father and 
herself. It was for the sake of the father’s health 
that they had taken up this as their place of resi¬ 
dence, and now, almost fully restored, he continued 
his work as an artist. Renie described their hunt for 
places of interest and the nights spent outdoors about 
a camp fire. 

“And Father knows you so well, Cecil, and he 
has already planned a canvas that will include you. 
He begs of you to hasten and make him famous.” 

In the same strain the girl wrote Mother Philippa, 
whom Cecilia went to see shortly afterward. The 
nun anxiously urged her to settle things with her 
family and seize on Renie’s invitation, then, as an 
excuse for flight until the storm blew over. But 
though Cecil agreed with her in her own pleasant 


186 


BROKEN PATHS 


manner. Mother Philippa realized that her heart was 
not in the plan. So she forced her to promise that the 
matter should be disposed of during the week that 
followed. And Cecil gave the promise and meant 
to keep it. 

But her thoughts were depressing. Even her 
escape seemed laid along conventional lines. With 
lagging steps and drooping spirits she came back 
that morning to her home, after giving that prom¬ 
ise to Mother Philippa. Basil Torrens had called 
with some specifications he had promised to leave 
for Mr. Emory, and Mrs. Emory was entertaining 
him. She glanced up as Cecilia stood in the frame 
of the door. 

“i am really extraordinarily busy,” she said, ris¬ 
ing. “Our great event is less than three weeks away, 
and I cannot feel satisfied unless I attend to every 
little detail myself. Cecil must not be bothered.” 

Basil Torrens smiled vaguely. Cecil, at the door, 
turned back. There were some letters lying on the 
hall table. She took them, and recognizing the post¬ 
mark on the top one thrust it hurriedly into her 
sleeve. She was looking over the others when her 
mother called to her. 

“Oh, is the mail there? Any letters for me?” 

“All these are for you, Mother,” announced Cecil, 
holding them out to her, and taking them, the mother 
went on into the library, drawing the doors shut 
behind her. Basil Torrens, standing waiting for 


BROKEN PATHS 


187 


Cecil, noticed the brightness of her eyes, the flush of 
her cheeks, and as she put one finger across her lips 
a curious sensation swept over him. Was he falling 
in love Tvith Cecil Emory? The thought struck him 
so quickly that he caught his breath. It was followed 
by another—anger at himself, and contempt. Falling 
in love with Cecil Emory? Never, never! 

“Oh, Mr. Torrens! Listen! I’ve a letter from 
Father Pat! There is a postmark. . .Silver Lode 
...and his name on the cover. Oh, Mr. Torrens, 
isn’t it splendid!'* She drew it out and showed it 
to him. “And it’s so nice and fat! And look! He 
put a fifty-cent stamp on it! Imagine! I wonder 
why he did that?” 

Basil Torrens knew nothing, of course, of Ned's 
promise and how he had redeemed it, but he smiled 
at her. 

“I suppose he wanted to be quite sure you'd 
get it.” 

“Oh, I hope it's true, I hope it's true!” she said, 
breaking the seal. “Why it is true! Look! ‘My 
dear little niece, Cecilia Mary!’ Oh, glory, glory, 
glory, it is true!” She was trembling with excite¬ 
ment. 

“Look here. Lady, you’ll have to be careful,” 
said Basil Torrens. “You’ve done this without let¬ 
ting your father know about it, and he may not 
like it” 


188 


BROKEN PATHS 


A shadow crossed her face. 

“It’s not my father—it’s my mother,*’ she said. 
“I think—my father would be glad—” She leaned 
against the piano, then, thrusting the letter into her 
sleeve once more, she sat down and began to play. 

“She has the true Celtic temperament,” said Basil 
Torrens to himself. “She’s all heart and fire.” 

“Let Erin remember the days of old 
Ere her faithless sons betrayed her. 

When Malachy wore the collar of gold 
Which he won from the proud invader. 

“When her king, with standards of green unfurled. 

Led the Red Branch Knights to danger. 

Ere the emerald gem of the—’’ 

Her voice, thrilling with intense feeling, was sud¬ 
denly interrupted. The door of the library was 
thrown open, and Mrs. Emory, her hands full of 
papers, appeared there. Evidently she did not 
expect to see Basil Torrens and she made a brave 
effort to conquer the anger that had made her pale 
and brought lightning to her dark eyes. 

“Cecil!” she said, and her voice rasped. 

Silence fell. Somehow Basil Torrens felt there 
was something more in this than the simple singing 
of a song. 

“Pardon me, Mr. Torrens,” said Mrs. Emory, in 
an icy tone. “Cecil, you are well aware of the fact 
that I detest that!” 


BROKEN PATHS 


189 


The girl had risen from the bench. 

“I had forgotten,” she said, in a low tone. 
Mrs. Emory looked at her an instant, opened her 
lips to speak, thought better of it, and the door closed 
behind her. 

What had happened? Basil Torrens could not 
tell. He had no way of knowing, but all the life 
and sweetness left that fair face. She walked to 
the fireplace and stood leaning against the mantel 
shelf. He felt that she had forgotten him, and when 
he followed her she raised her eyes to his, putting her 
hand into the hand he had extended. And once 
more, at the touch of her fingers, he was aware that 
Cecilia Emory and he were no longer friends. 

Cecil, he said, Cecil—1— 

She stared at him, startled. Then, from brow to 
chin she flushed scarlet, turning from him, covering 
her face with her hands. He stood close to her, 
trembling. 

“Cecil... little Cecil... Oh, good-by, good-by!” 

He turned then, realizing as if pierced by a light¬ 
ning flash that he must never see her again. His 
parting with Joyce Moore three years before had 
been a philosophical affair—and oh, the contempt 
of self that now swept through him! Twice he had 
fallen in love with a girl who preferred Malcolm 
Travers—and this last girl was to be Malcolm 
Travers* wife in three short weeks! He was in a 
rage as he left the Emory house—and so strong was 


190 BROKEN PATHS 

this sensation that it made him feel ill. Twice I 
Twice! 

With his going Cecil sank into a chair and tried 
to regain her composure. She, too, had been 
attracted by Basil Torrens—she who had cared so 
little about Malcolm Travers—whose coming and 
going mattered nothing. And she was to marry 
Malcolm Travers, to be his wife, forever and ever? 
Oh, no, she could not. It had been but a mild pro¬ 
test before compared to this—a feeling of insecurity, 
of indecision, a sort of lurking idea that maybe she 
ought to go through with it. . .when it was done it 
could not be undone. . . everything would be settled 
. . .no more mental worry. But now. . .had that 
look on Basil Torrens’ face roused this hatred? 

She stirred uneasily. Her mother’s voice sounded 
in the library. She sprang to her feet and ran up 
the stairs to her own room, turning the key in the 
lock. Then she drew Father Pat’s letter from her 
sleeve. Such a dear letter, telling her they had 
thought Tom Emory dead—report had reached them 
that he had been killed—of his life in the Nevada 
hills with his few scattered Catholics, rough men but 
with hearts like nuggets of gold. He told her of 
the death of the dear old blue-eyed woman in Con¬ 
nemara many years before, and of how her letter 
had touched him. And indeed he could tell her that 
the song was “Let Erin Remember the Days of 
Old,’’ that his mother sang with all her heart in it 


BROKEN PATHS 


191 


—and had her father told her that she could whistle 
like any bird God ever made? And, please God, 
he’d hear that song some day sung by his little niece, 
Cecilia Mary. And now she must show this letter 
to his brother, and tell him that Pat sent him all the 
love of his heart and hoped soon to be hearing from 
him. 

Cecil was crying when she finished. Some of the 
emotion this priest had felt as he penned these words 
crept through and found an echo in her young soul. 
Oh, here was reality, here was truth, here was a 
man who lived close to God and to heaven; here 
l vas what she wanted! Her mother could enjoy 
the life of the world, but Cecilia Emory did not 
intend to. “I am meant only for the nooks and the 
crannies, dear Lord,” she said, “so please find me 
one and let me creep into it.” 

She took up another letter lying at her elbow— 
Renie Ward’s. It, too, held the warm friendliness 
of one who was good and true and unpretentious. 
She would go to Renie’s until the storm blew over; 
she had promised Mother Philippa to settle it within 
the week—and she would. Quietly she would steal 
away, leaving them a note saying where she had gone 
—and telling them why. 

She wrote the note, then, while the feeling was 
warm within her. It was a calm statement of facts. 
She had tried her very best to become reconciled to 
the idea of marriage with Malcolm Travers. She 


192 


BROKEN PATHS 


could not. She knew what it would mean if she 
told them so, and she would not go through it again. 
Once had been enough. So she had written to 
Renie Ward, up in Vermont—this was her address— 
and she would go there and stay until they told her 
to come home. And if they followed her and tried 
to make her go on with this marriage she’d come 
back and go on with it—and at the very altar rail 
she would say NO! And surely that would be 
worse than upsetting things now, particularly when 
she was just as determined at this minute never to 
marry Malcolm Travers as she had always been 
and always would be. 

She underscored the words heavily and then hid 
the letter under the blotter on her desk. The next 
thing was to see to her finances. She had nearly 
six hundred dollars in bills and coins—gifts from 
her father that she had never spent, and her allow¬ 
ances. And in her bank book there was the sum of 
two thousand on deposit! Surely that would see 
her through. And she would draw it all! She 
glanced at the clock—it was just half-past one— 
and to reach the bank would take the brisk walk of 
a few minutes. She would go, then, get her money 
and go down to the Pennsylvania station, find out 
when she could make connections, and when the 
trains left. 

No one saw her leave the house. She drew out 
all her money with the exception of fifty dollars, then 


BROKEN PATHS 


193 


walked over and down Broadway, through Fifty- 
ninth Street to the Paulist Church, where she went 
and knelt a few minutes before Our Lord; then out 
and back again to the avenue, where she hailed a 
car. As she got into it, and as she stood waiting for 
change, she saw two people sauntering side by side 
along the busy thoroughfare. They were Malcolm 
Travers and Joyce Moore. 

“I have forgotten something,” she told the con¬ 
ductor breathlessly. “Please stop.” He did so, and 
she descended, and walked straight up toward them, 
confronting them. 

“Miss Emory!” exclaimed the other girl. She was 
startled indeed. “Why—” 

“Cecil!” said Malcolm Travers, under his breath. 

Cecil nodded. 

“I saw you from the car.” Her words came 
quickly, as if she had been running. “And I’m so 
glad. It seemed too good to be true. I’ve been 
trying to get you together ever since—ever since—” 
She hesitated. “And now you are here—” 

“It was by the merest accident,” began Malcolm 
Travers. 

“Please, Miss Emory,” said Joyce Moore, and 
her face was pale, “it was not by any appointment 
. . .Mr. Travers just happened—” 

“That is it. I just happened, too,” said Cecil, a 
little tremulously. “Oh, Miss Moore, you don’t 




194 


BROKEN PATHS 


know how I’ve longed to see you and talk to you. 
Maybe if dear Senator Hayden had been able to 
stay in New York I could have managed it before 
this. And you mustn’t be vexed—” 

Joyce stared at her curiously. What a little child 
she was! She should be filled with indignation, angry 
at both her promised husband and the girl who had 
once been his promised wife. Instead she was apolo¬ 
gizing. What was she apologizing for? 

“I’m sure you are the one who should be vexed,’’ 
said Joyce Moore. 

“Cecil,” said Malcolm Travers, a little sharply, 
“you have some peculiar twist in your brain about 
Miss Moore and I’m going to straighten it here and 
now, to the satisfaction of all three. Miss Moore, 
you were my—you were engaged to me until three 
or four months ago?” 

“Yes,” said Joyce Moore. 

“And you broke our engagement and told me you 
did not intend ever to marry—is not that the truth?” 

“Yes,” said Joyce Moore, “that is the truth. It 
has always been the truth.” 

“If Miss Emory and I were not engaged at this 
moment and I asked you once more—what would 
your answer be?” 

“My answer is that I do not intend to marry— 
ever,” said Joyce Moore, coldly. 

Malcolm Travers drew a deep breath. He looked 


BROKEN PATHS 


195 


at Joyce, and Cecilia, intercepting it, knew it for 
the glance of a lover. . .Basil Torrens had looked 
at her like that... and her cheeks burned... Basil 
Torrens.. .Malcolm Travers turned to Cecil with a 
smile. 

“Are you satisfied now?’* he asked. 

“I am satisfied,” said Cecil, sighing, “but I wish 
I—understood.” She extended her hand. “Will 
you, please. Miss Moore?” And Joyce shook hands 
with her, feeling ages older and wiser than this child 
who was to marry Malcolm Travers, the fastidious, 
the bored. How could she keep him after mar¬ 
riage, this transparent, milk-and-water little maid? 
Cecilia smiled, and in moving back, brushed against 
Malcolm. He held her arm, not knowing that her 
hand had touched his pocket, and that something 
had been slipped within it by her deft fingers. 

“I must be going on,” she said. “Good after¬ 
noon to both of you.” 

“I suppose we shall meet again this evening,” said 
Malcolm Travers lightly. 

“Perhaps,” nodded Cecil. She looked at Joyce 
Moore with an odd expression. “Do not think I am 
quite so foolish as I appear to be,” she said. “I 
should like to be friends with you, Miss Moore.” 

“I don’t see how anyone could help being friends 
with you. Miss Emory,” said Joyce, and when 
Cecilia had gone she turned almost fiercely on Mal¬ 
colm Travers. 


196 BROKEN PATHS 

“Please say good-by and go now. I feel like 
a traitor or something black and mean and miserable 
after talking to her. Oh, Malcolm Travers, you are 
going into this of your own will and if you are not 
good to her—” 

“It will be easy to be good to her,” he said, 
unsteadily. “She does not expect very much from 
anyone, and perhaps I’ll be better to her than 
another man could be. Only, Joyce—you’ve said it 
—it’s final—only tell me why. Why did you 
decide—” 

“Why talk of it?” asked Joyce Moore. “There 
is nothing to be said.’’ 

“You have not denied yet that you love me.” 

“And never shall. But I am not going to marry, 
so go to your Cecilia Emory. It’s no use.” 

“I shall go to my Cecilia Emory,” he said, his 
lips white with the anger she had evoked. “And 
I promise you this, Joyce Moore; I shall put you 
out of my very thoughts. I can do it.” 

“I wish you to,” she said. He swung away from 
her, then, and she went on. He did not know that 
her teeth had cut into her under lip, that her nails 
were digging into her palms. Nor did he know 
that when Cecilia Emory had stumbled and brushed 
against him his engagement ring had been slipped into 
his coat pocket. But from that unforeseen meeting 
Cecilia Emory carried one deep impression—the look 


BROKEN PATHS 


197 


on Malcolm Travers’ face when his eyes rested on 
Joyce Moore. It told her all, and it made her 
happy, convincing her that she was right. She had 
been caught in a curious mesh and the only way to 
get out was to cut the threads. This she had done. 
By the returning of the ring even in so furtive a man¬ 
ner she had lifted the burden. 

She ran down the broad steps into the Pennsyl¬ 
vania station and proceeded at once to the Informa¬ 
tion desk. Here she got her time tables and sat 
down to pore over them. A train would leave that 
very evening around eight o’clock and another—she 
paused to think. Which was the best for her? And 
as $he lifted her eyes she met another pair of eyes 
staring straight into hers—brown eyes, with heavy 
lashes. They belonged to a slender boy of about 
ten years of age—and there was something appealing 
in his glance. She moved toward him, smiling in 
a friendly fashion. There was a suitcase at his feet, 
and he sat crouched upon the hard bench, a little 
frightened, she thought, and very lonely. 

“Well, little boy,” she said, “are you waiting for 
someone?” 

“Oh, no,” he answered. “I’m all alone.” 

“And you’re going traveling?” 

“Yes. To see my father.” 

“And there isn’t anyone to go with you?” 

“I’m able to go myself. I’m ten—and I’ve got 


198 BROKEN PATHS 

all my tickets and my directions written down. Only 
it’s —so long!" 

Cecilia nodded. 

“I know just how you feel,” she said. “I wish 
I could stay with you, but I’ll get you some maga¬ 
zines and a box of popcorn—and have you had your 
dinner?” 

“No,” said the boy. “I was afraid I might miss 
my train.” 

“For pity’s sake, child, how long have you been 
here?” 

“Since eleven. Jerry brought me down from the 
school. Then he said it wasn’t any use bringing 
me back, and that the man would take care of me 
until the train came. But I don’t see any man—” 

“But where are you going—where does your 
father live, boy?” 

“My father is John Bidwell—that’s my name, too 
—and he lives at Silver Lode, Nevada.” 

Cecilia blinked several times. 

“Will you say part of that again?” she said. 
“Your father lives—where?” 

“At Silver Lode, Nevada. And I have my tickets 

all safe in this wallet, and my train will be coming 

• »* 
m— 

“Wait a minute,” said Cecil Emory, “wait a 
minute. Pm going to Silver Lode , Nevada , myself, 
to visit my uncle," 


BROKEN PATHS 199 

“You are?” said the boy, his mouth falling open 
with surprise. 

“I am,” said Cecil firmly. “Let me look at your 
time tables.. .Um.. .3:10.” She glanced at the 
clock, making a quick calculation. Then she went 
to the desk and asked a few pointed questions. She 
had an hour to get home, pack her bag and leave. 
Well. . .she could do it. 

So it happened that Malcolm Travers, who had 
seen his prospective bride board a surface car early 
in the afternoon, might have seen that same pros¬ 
pective bride, accompanied by a little boy of ten 
years old, snugly ensconced in a coach on the Pan¬ 
handle Express enroute for Chicago, a comparatively 
short while later. 


Chapter XII 

AT THE END OF THE TRAIL 


A FTERWARD Cecil had time to wonder at 
herself. There was the hiring of the taxicab, 
which she bade wait for her in a side street, the 
hurried packing of a bag, and the donning of a 
smart but inconspicuous tweed suit which would serve 
her well for traveling. Out again, the note to her 
people lying on her table, and off in the taxi to the 
station once more, she found she had just ten minutes 
to spare, and she called Basil Torrens. He was at 
the Metropole, as she knew, and it was in keeping 
with the good fortune that had attended her so far 
that he was within immediate call. 

‘‘It is Cecil Emory,” she said, “asking a very 
great favor from Mr. Basil Torrens.” 

“Mr. Torrens grants it at once—what is it, Miss 
Emory? All my kingdom...or a horse?” 

“Neither...I am serious. No matter what hap¬ 
pens you won’t tell anyone that I have received a 
letter from Silver Lode—not until after—June 
tenth?” 

“June tenth?” There was a queer note in Basil 
Torrens* voice. “Well...that is easy. I promise 
. . .on my word of honor! And, Miss Cecil—” 


200 


BROKEN PATHS 


201 


“Yes, Mr. Torrens?” 

“I am leaving the city tonight. My people have 
sent for me and I shall probably start out again. .. 
very soon. I don’t think I’ll be here for the tenth. 
So it isn’t likely I’ll meet anyone to whom I can 
report your correspondence.” 

She laughed. 

“That is good news.” 

“What?” He was hurt. “That I am going 
v* 

away? 

“Oh, no! But no one can ask you. . .well, never 
mind. . .Good-by—” 

“Please. . .just two minutes more. When I see 
your Father Pat, if I do, I may mention it to him?” 

Again her laughter reached him, 

“Perhaps I shall be listening when you tell it.” 

“Not likely.” 

“No, of course it isn’t—” 

“Miss Cecil?” 

“Mr. Torrens?” 

“May I wish you all the joy and happiness in the 
world? May your every dream for a rosy future 
be fulfilled.” 

“Amen to that, Mr. Torrens—and I’m painting 
my own sunlight, remember. Good-by.” 

“Good-by,” he said, and hung up the receiver, 
wondering a little what she meant. 


202 


BROKEN PATHS 


“I don’t know what saint takes care of girls who 
show the white feather," she thought, whimsically, 
as the train glided quietly out of the station, “but, 
please, dear saint, whoever you are, bring me safe to 
Father Pat." And then she laughed into the brown 
eyes of the little lad who had directed her steps in 
this strange way. 

“Tell me," she said, putting one arm over his 
shoulders, “did you ever hear this song?" 

“Let Erin remember the days of old, 

Ere her faithless sons betrayed her—** 

She hummed it under her breath, and the boy 
snuggled up close to her in the dusk of the car. 

“I never heard it," he said, “but it*s nice. I 
wish you were my sister." 

“Why," said Cecil, solemnly, “that’s easy. Give 
me your right hand—now say this after me: *1, 
John Bidwell, promise to take you, Cecil Emory, 
for my sister until we reach Silver Lode, Nevada, 
and my father, safe and sound.* ** 

The boy repeated the formula, after which Cecilia, 
reversing the names, did the same. Then she sighed 
contentedly. 

“See how I can make wishes come true, little 
brother?" she said, gaily. 

“I’ll he very good to you and take good care of 
you," asserted John Bidwell, earnestly. 


BROKEN PATHS 203 

“And now we’re going to make the most of this 
journey,” said Cecil. “There’s lots to see, John. 
We’re going to Chicago, and then to Denver, and to 
Utah before we reach Silver Lode. At least, that’s 
what my time tables saj', though I’ve never been 
there before. But do you know why I haven’t the 
least bit of fear, John—do you know why?” 

“No,” he answered. 

“Because it is all our country,” she said. “Every¬ 
where we go—past all these little villages and towns 
and great cities—these are our people—our Amer¬ 
ican people, John. Years and years ago, before you 
and I were born, brave missionaries came over from 
other lands to tell them about God—are you a Cath¬ 
olic, John?” 

“No, Cecil—” 

“Well, then. These missionaries came over here 
and many of them traveled along the very paths 
where these railroads run. You’ll have to read the 
story of the Oregon trail some day, John, and about 
Father De Smet, who lived scores of years among all 
the Indian tribes and had friends everywhere.” 

Tiresome, indeed, may be a journey to those beset 
by business cares, but to Cecilia and John the hours 
went by magically. All the great West was before 
them—and at the end was to be the boy’s meeting 
with his father, the girl’s meeting with someone 
already revered because of his holy office, and loved 




204 


BROKEN PATHS 


because of the warmth which his letter had aroused 
in her breast. She had no idea of what the con¬ 
ditions might be, nor what sort of life her newly 
found uncle was leading. Imagination supplied cer¬ 
tain details—a cozy cottage nestling at the foot of 
a tall mountain, and a small white church, with a 
spire, and Uncle Pat, snowy-haired and ruddy of 
countenance, smiling, surrounded by little children, 
or mounted on the gray horse of which Basil Tor¬ 
rens had told her, going off to visit a few scattered 
parishioners. She hoped his housekeeper would be 
a nice old lady, who would be glad to see her 
because she was Father Pat’s niece. By-and-by, she 
could begin to teach Sunday-school and perhaps play 
the organ for Sunday and evening services. 

She was quite elated over this picture, and it was 
not until they were on the last lap of their long jour¬ 
ney that a certain uneasiness crept over her. How 
could she explain herself to Father Pat? Mother 
Philippa had been so careful, and she had promised, 
and then, like a coward, she had run away. What 
would this priest say to her when she stood before 
him and told him her story? Would he think she 
was a foolish child and immediately summon her 
relatives? And if they came—her mother could 
arrive before the tenth of June—she knew her mother 
—Cecilia felt cold as she thought about it. Well, 
then, and she drew a long breath, it would have to 
happen, and she must take the consequences. 


BROKEN PATHS 205 

She found that no train stopped at Silver Lode, 
which was about four miles back in the mountains. 
The nearest station was Bent River. As she stood 
on the tiny platform, with the train receding in the 
distance, the boy close beside her, then and then only 
did Cecilia realize what she had done. There were 
no other passengers to alight, and as Cecilia gazed 
about her, she was struck by the intense silence. The 
boy’s eyes were fastened on her. His trust was abso¬ 
lute, and Cecilia did not want to shake that trust. 
Summoning all her courage, she approached a little 
shack near the end of the station and peered inside. 
There was an elderly man there, his head buried in 
a newspaper, his feet elevated on a wooden box. 

“Please,” said Cecil. Her voice sounded small 
and timid. She cleared her throat. “I beg your 
pardon,” she said. “Will you tell me how I can 
get to Silver Lode?” 

The newspaper came down slowly. Its reader 
stared at her; then he took his glasses off his nose, 
rubbed his eyes, and stared again. She smiled at 
that. It was as if he had never seen a girl before, 
she thought. 

“Why—why—” he began, and rose to his feet. 
“I thought I was going loco,” he said. 

She did not understand, and looked at him, 
puzzled. 

“You want to go some place. Miss?” 


206 


BROKEN PATHS 


“Yes—Silver Lode. Is it very far? And how 
can I get there ?” 

“Silver Lode? Say, Miss, I’m—well, maybe 
I’m scared—it feels that way! Why, there’ll be a 
coadh along here in about ten minutes from Silver 
Lode, to get the mail. They’ll find room in it for 
you, sure—they take people, but it’s only a stray 
one goes to Silver Lode any more, though Silver 
Lode was once a great place before the mines petered 
to nothing.’’ Talking volubly he had come out of 
the shack and up the platform, where little John 
Bidwell stood. Cecilia smiled at his friendliness 
and bloomed under it. Her heart rose buoyantly. 

“Can you tell me—do you know my uncle. Father 
Patrick Emory?’’ 

“Uncle! Father Pat! You don’t mean Father 
Pat? You’re Father Pat’s niece?” 

“Yes,” said Cecil, happily, “I am. And I’ve 
come to visit him for a little while. It’s a surprise,” 
she added, and the old man nodded sagely. “And 
this boy’s father is at Silver Lode, too. He came 
all the way with me to see him.” 

“I’m sure Silver Lode will be some puffed up,” 
said the old man. He was gazing at her fascinated. 
In all his seventy years he had seen nothing prettier. 
“Good glory. Miss, you’ll turn Silver Lode upside 
down!” 

Cecil laughed. 



BROKEN PATHS 


207 


“Oh, I suppose because of my uncle! Do you 
know my uncle well?” 

“Father Pat’s an old-timer. Miss; everybody knows 
him. 

“And likes him?” 

“Can’t say that. Miss. Some of ’em might find 
it convenient if he weren’t around. He’s got a soft 
way for some, and a hard fist for others—but he’s 
a man, is Father Pat. And what might the little 
boy’s name be, did you say, Miss?*’ 

“My name is John Bidwell—the same as my 
father’s,’’ spoke up the sturdy lad. “Do you know 
my father, too, sir?” 

“John Bidwell!” The man’s face sobered in¬ 
stantly. “Did you say John Bidwell? I never 
knew Jack (we called him that here) had a son.” 

“Oh, yes,*’ said the boy, and it was his turn to 
smile happily. “We write to each other, all the time. 
Dad and I. And two months ago he sent the money 
for the tickets and things, and school stopped so 
early this year that Mr. Edson—he’s the master— 
said I could get off at once. Mr. Edson had to go 
to England last week, so it was Jerry who brought 
me to the cars. But if Cecil hadn’t helped me, I 
don’t think I’d ever have reached here. I never knew 
it was so far away.” 

“Jack Bidwell!” said the man again. “Miss, 


208 


BROKEN PATHS 


you’ll keep the little lad with you until you meet 
Father Pat. Father Pat can tell you what to do.” 

“Why,” said Cecilia, “I wouldn’t let him go to 
anybody excepting the one to whom he belongs. 
We’re brother and sister now, and, of course, I 
have to take care of him—don’t I, John? We 
take care of each other!” 

A long piercing whistle interrupted her. 

“There’s the stage coach now,” said the old 
man. “Wait! I’ll speak to Steve myself.” 

There was a quick exchange of talk in lowered 
voices between him and the weather-beaten driver, 
in which Cecilia caught the name of Jack Bidwell. 
But she paid no attention, and the boy was in the 
height of glory. Never in all his dreams had he 
thought of riding in a real stage coach, drawn by six 
horses, and driven by such a real Western cowboy as 
Steve Durano, the grizzled man on the driver’s seat. 
They were to find out that while a stage coach was 
gloriously picturesque, there was something lacking 
in comfort. 

A four-mile drive over rough roads seemingly 
paved with small boulders was an experience that 
Cecilia had never had before. At the end of it, 
she wished that she might never have it again. She 
was tired and hungry, she felt in sore need of a 
bath, although she had managed to wipe the dust from 
her face and neck before the coach rolled up to 


BROKEN PATHS 


209 


Startin’s. Jim Startin came out and stared in amaze¬ 
ment at the boy who was helping to the ground a slim 
girl—and both of them strangers in Silver Lode. An 
odd, wrinkled little man, short and stooping, was 
packing groceries on his pony when Cecilia got out 
of the coach, and the driver hailed him. 

“Hey, you, Michael O’Brien! Here’s Father 
Pat’s niece come to visit him!” 

The little man stood still, scarcely able to believe 
his ears. Father Pat’s niece! Impossible! Sure this 
was a young lady and Father Pat had said his niece 
was a child! He took off his battered hat and 
approached the girl, slowly. 

“Please, Miss, may I ask your name?” he said 
respectfully. 

“Cecilia Emory,” she said, "and this little boy—” 

“Is it Cecilia Mary, you are?” he asked, quietly. 
“You wrote to Father Pat a while ago?” 

“Yes,” said Cecilia Mary, "I did.” 

“Maybe, now, he misunderstood your letter? Did 
you say you were coming to visit him?” 

“No,” said Cecil. “I made up my mind later. 
Can you take me to him?” 

“I can take you to his house, Miss, an’ my 
Nora’ll do for ye until he comes back. He’s gone 
to one of the out-missions on a sick-call, and he 
can’t be home before tomorrow morning.” 


210 


BROKEN PATHS 


“Then that will give me the very chance I need/’ 
said Cecil, lightly. “Is Nora—Father Pat’s house¬ 
keeper?’’ 

“Father Pat has no housekeeper,” said the old 
man. “I’m afeared, Miss, you’ve got no idea— 
Can you sit on a horse?” 

“Oh, yes,” said Cecil, “I can ride.” 

“Then we’ll borry two horses from ye, Startin,” 
said Michael O’Brien. “Or one’ll do—the roan 
if you have him. Miss can sit on my nag, an’ the 
boy can ride with me on the roan.” 

“You can have the two and welcome, if you 
want them,” said Jim Startin, and at the sound of 
of his voice Cecilia turned to him. A half-dozen 
men had come out and stood leaning against the 
posts watching her. Now, when they saw her face 
with its shining blue eyes, one of them came forward, 
hat in hand. 

“Maybe you’d better let the young lady take my 
Peggy,” said he. “She’s sure gentle.” 

He looked appealingly at Cecilia who shook her 
head. He turned to Michael O’Brien. 

“Maybe you’ll introduce me to the lady,” he 
said. 

Michael O’Brien hesitated. 

“I think I’ll let Father Pat do all the introducing, 
Lon,” was his dry answer. “He’ll probably take 
care of things when he gets back.” He turned to 


BROKEN PATHS 


211 


Cecilia, and the young man retreated, a little 
chagrined, while the covert grins of the others showed 
that they appreciated Michael’s retort. “Come now, 
little lady,” he said, “I’ll help you up—it’s a mile 
or two of a journey to Father Pat’s shack, and 
you must be tired.” 

But Cecilia needed no help; she took the reins 
with a sensation of confidence she had not expected 
to feel. Startin’s big roan had been brought out, 
and Michael loaded it with some of his provisions, 
then took the lad in front of him and led the way. 
Cecilia turned, however, with a friendly little smile 
to Jim Startin. It included all who were watching 
her, and they acknowledged it by sweeping bows, 
and continued to watch her until she had disappeared 
from view. 

But they had no topic of conversation equal to 
this—the arrival of Father Pat’s niece at Silver Lode. 
By the time that Cecilia’s horse had gone its first 
half-mile, reports of her coming and of her beauty 
had circled the small town. In their excitement 
the boy had been overlooked, but when the driver 
informed them that the little lad was Jack Bidwell’s 
son, Jack Bidwell, whose murderer was still at large, 
they had a new source of speculation. Little John 
Bidwell, asking for his father, and his father dead 
a week! Surely Silver Lode had enough to keep 
tongues busy! 


212 


BROKEN PATHS 


But Michael O’Brien’s mind was in a turmoil as 
he preceded Cecilia along the Lode trail. What 
in the name of conscience would Father Pat do 
with her? A city^bred girl, who knew nothing of 
hardships, living on eggs and beans and stale bread 
and coffee, and meat only once in a while when a 
rancher did some slaughtering. . . . 

“I’ll be taking you to Nora, first,” he said. 
“We’ll get you a bite before you come back to 
Father Pat’s.” 

“If you don’t mind,” said Cecilia, civilly, “I’ll 
go to Father Pat’s first and get my own supper. I 
can . . . manage. And he mightn’t like it 

if I went anywhere else.’’ 

“There’ s maybe nothing in his house to eat—” 

“If there’s anything for him, there’s something for 
me,” said Cecilia firmly. “I didn’t come out here to 
make trouble for anyone. We’ll do nicely, Mr. 
O’Brien.” 

“My name is Michael, Miss.” 

“Oh, then, Nora must be Mrs. Michael,” laughed 
Cecilia. 

She was wondering at herself. The trail was so 
narrow in places that only the surefootedness of the 
pony kept them from a bad fall—and yet she 
did not feel the least alarm, the least depression. Not 
once had the sight of so many faces embarrassed her. 
It was all part of a glorious adventure—and every 


BROKEN PATHS 


213 


hour of every day, while it brought the dreaded 
date nearer, meant that it would soon be past. And 
finally when they halted before the little shack which 
was Father Pat’s home, and when Michael O’Brien, 
pointing, said, “there is the house,’* even then she 
felt no fear. 

“Who may the lad be?” asked Michael O’Brien, 
now. 

“John Bidwell,” said the lad himself. “My father 
is at Silver Lode.’* 

“But the man at the station said I should bring 
him to Father Pat first, before asking for his father,’’ 
explained Cecilia. 

“Well ...” Michael, bewildered turned 
to lift the packages from the big roan to strap them 
on the pony for his journey of another half-mile. 
“That was a good idea. Most of these men go off 
prospecting an* there’s no telling when they’ll be 
around — But Father Pat’ll know.’’ He swung open 
the half-door that led to Old Erin’s roomy stall, 
now vacant. “Get in here, Duke,*’ he said to the 
horse, “an* behave yourself till I return ye to the 
man that owns ye. There’s some provisions I got 
here at Father Pat’s order today—I’ll leave them 
with you. Miss. An* of course you’ll make as free 
with them as if he were with you.’’ He tweaked 
John’s ear. “We’ll have to get him a wee pony of 
his own,’* he said, “an* an outfit like Lon West’s. 


214 


BROKEN PATHS 


They call him dandy Lon out here because he combs 
his hair.” He laughed outright, then. “Keep the 
door barred an’ don’t neither of ye go out after dark, 
for it’s pitch black an* a stranger finds it hard to 
know the way. It’s getting dark now, but my Nora’ll 
sure be over as soon as I’ve told her about you. 
God be with ye!” 

Off he jogged. Cecilia and John looked at each 
other a second—then Cecilia began to laugh. 

“We’re out West, John,” she said, “and did you 
ever dream it would be like this?” 

“Why, of course I did, Cecil,” he said, eagerly, 
“We used to go camping—I can make coffee and 
I can fry—” 

“Look here, young man,” said Cecil, severely, “/ 
am the camp cook—if there’s anything to cook! Oh, 
John, John, look at the lovely bucket of water stand¬ 
ing outside the door. Come on, let’s get a drink, and 
wash, quick, before it gets too dark.” 

She magically produced soap and towel somewhat 
the worse for usage, a comb, hair-brush, tooth-brush 
and paste. In a few seconds they were splashing away 
and soon both John and Cecilia were refreshed. 
Hunger, however, still had to be satisfied. The 
interior of the shack was comfortless enough, but to 
these two it was part of the play in which they were 
the actors. Beans and bread, and coffee, too, for 
John knew how to set the fire going, were soon 


BROKEN PATHS 


215 


prepared. The beans were cold, the bread hard, the 
coffee poor, having neither milk nor sugar. But 
their hunger was so great that the food was relished 
better than the daintiest of meals. Cecilia found the 
lamp on the table and John produced a match and 
lighted it. They went into the inner room. Father 
Pat’s bed was a couch of rough logs raised about a 
foot from the floor. There were no springs and only 
a thin cotton mattress—no pillows, no sheets. A blan¬ 
ket was folded neatly across the bottom of the bed. 
That was all. The house was clean enough, “but,” 
as Cecilia said to herself, “there’s nothing in it to 
get dirty.” She wondered a little what the life of 
this priest must be in such cold poverty. 

John crouched before the fire. He was nodding. 
She spoke to him, then helped him to his feet and 
put him in Father Pat’s bed, covering him with the 
blanket. Hardly had his head touched the mattress 
when he was asleep. And as she came out, hold¬ 
ing the small lamp in her hand, there was a knock 
at the door. 

“It’s Michael, Miss,” said a familiar voice, and 
Cecil, smiling, drew the bar out of its socket. It 
was indeed Michael and his wife, Nora, for Nora 
O’Brien, a woman as small as her husband, and 
with a weather-beaten, lined countenance and iron- 
gray hair, followed him. She had been a little 
indignant when Michael brought her the news of 
Cecil’s arrival, and the indignation had shown itself 


216 


BROKEN PATHS 


in the haste with which she flew along the path 
in the gathering dusk. But now as she followed 
Michael, and Cecilia, holding the lamp, raised her 
flower-like face, with its shining eyes, and the 
golden hair clinging in waves about her forehead 
and ears, Mrs. Nora fell back, all her indignation 
taking wing. 

“For all the world like a smiling angel,” she said 
to herself. Aloud, “Glory, child! What on earth 
made you come away out here without a word to 
his reverence?” 

“Oh,” said Cecil. And then, “Do you think he’ll 
be—angry?” 

“Angry?” echoed Nora O’Brien, quick to sense 
the apprehension in her tones. “I’ve never seen 
Father Pat angry in my life, and I don’t think he’ll 
get angry now. But it’s sorry he’ll be that he can’t 
make you more—comfortable. This is hardly the 
kind of a home a little lady like you is used to.” 

“But Father Pat lives here,” said Cecilia, quietly. 
“And—I didn’t ask to come—I just came. Besides 
. . .perhaps I can make it just a little bit more. . . 
well, that doesn’t matter. I’m here, and if he doesn’t 
put me out I’m going to stay.” 

“Dear child, you can’t stay here alone.” 

“No?” said Cecil. “And why not?” 

My dear, it s not for me to tell you why not. 
Father Pat will find some place for you to stay— 



LOOKING UP AT HIM WAS “THE CHILD WITH 
HIS MOTHER’S EYES" 










. 

• 31 ■ 





■ 


BROKEN PATHS 217 

there’s Mrs. Miller’s at Deer Creek—she has two 
daughters—perhaps, if you want to visit a while, 
he’ll arrange to have you stop with them.” 

Cecil looked at her with suddenly compressed lips. 
“An’ ’twas as if Father Pat himself was looking you 
in the eye,” she said to Michael afterward. 

“I’m not going to the Miller house or anybody 
else’s house,” she said firmly. “I got away from 
people and I’m not going back to people. If uncle 
can’t make room for me here or with you and Mr. 
O’Brien—” 

“Glory be...our house is just the same as this 
one,” said Nora. 

“If it’s good enough for you and Mr. Michael, 
it’s good enough for me,” said Cecilia firmly. “And 
maybe you can take me? I suppose John’s father will 
be sending for him tomorrow. I’ve put him to sleep 
in Father Pat’s bed,” she said, “he was so tired.” 

“Well, then,” said Nora, “Michael can tumble in 
beside him, an’ you’ll stay with me tonight. Father 
Pat can make what arrangements he likes in the 
morning.” 

“But I must be back in the morning,” said Cecil. 
“I must be here when Father Pat comes home.” 

So it chanced when Father Pat Emory hit the 
top of the trail leading him to his shack the next 
morning, he saw smoke curling upward from its 
rough chimney. This did not surprise him for the 


218 


BROKEN PATHS 


stray traveler often used his fire. But as he came 
nearer there was a thin flutter of white from the lone 
window—a curtain contrived from a slip that Cecil 
Emory had put into her bag on leaving home. He 
had avoided Silver Lode on the way, taking the river 
trail because it saved him a half-hour. Now he spoke 
to Old Erin quickly; as if she, too, anticipated the 
surprise in store she broke into a smarter gait, and 
as Father Pat drew near the door opened “an* sure 
out came a mist of sunshine that was fit to blind me,” 
and before him, looking up at him, was “the child 
with his mother’s eyes.” 


I 


» 

V. 

u 


\ 


Chapter XIII 
FATHER PAT’S GIRL 

T HE priest could only stare in his utter bewilder¬ 
ment—and the girl stared back at him—this 
weather-beaten, rugged man, his wiry frame unbent 
beneath the years of hard work, sleepless nights, dis¬ 
appointments and hardships. Seamed and lined was 
his tanned, dark face; snowy white his hair. But 
there was the sweetness of a great patience about his 
mouth and the glint of a great kindness in the blue 
of his eyes. He dismounted from his mare now and 
advanced toward her. 

/ 

“I don’t know whether it’s a real Irish fairy come 
to visit me, or whether I’m just thinking things,” he 
said humorously. “Maybe now you could tell me 
which it is yourself?” 

“It’s Cecilia Mary, Father Pat,” said Cecil, in a 
voice she vainly tried to make quite brave and strong. 

“Cecilia Mary!” He continued to look at her. 
“You’ve grown some,” he added. “To me Cecilia 
Mary had a long braid down her back—or is it 

V 

bobbed hair they’re wearing now?—and a pack of 
books under her arm. What do you mean by grow¬ 
ing up like this, Cecilia Mary, since last week?” 

“I’m out of college two years,” said the girl 
quietly. 


219 


220 BROKEN PATHS 

“Two years. Out of college! And how old are 
ye?” 

‘Tm twenty-two, Father Pat.” 

“Twenty-two! Um—that an age! You look 
maybe sixteen, Cecilia Mary.” She glanced at him, 
and there was a sudden twinkle in her eye to match 
his own. 

“I’ve some coffee ready,” she said. “I started it 
as soon as I saw your horse on the trail. Mr. Michael 
told me you might be along that way to save time. 
And here is John Bidwell. He came with me. He 
has a father at Silver Lode, but Mr. Michael 
wouldn’t let us go look for him—he said not until 
you came back—that his father had probably gone 
prospecting. Mrs. Nora brought over baking-powder 
and I’ve some pancake batter ready. Would you 
like egg pancake and bacon. Father Pat, for break¬ 
fast?” 

“Sure it’s a real live cook fairy,” said Father Pat, 
in a voice he tried to render jocular. He was used to 
surprises, but he had had quite enough for one occa¬ 
sion. How in the name of conscience had Jack 
Bidwell’s son come here? What a handsome lad! 
How had he learned—but he couldn’t have learned 
of his father’s death yet! And what could he say to 
him at all! Or had Jack Bidwell forgotten he was 
coming? And here was this golden-haired creature 
cooking a meal! For him! He hadn’t had a meal 
cooked in his own house for twenty years! 


BROKEN PATHS 


221 


“I’ll put up Old Erin,” he said, “and come back 
and sample your pancakes and bacon. Sun-top.” He 
frowned, drawing down his brows. “You know I’m 
a bit necessary in these parts, and good cooking might 
do me harm. Think it will. Sun-top?” 

“Oh, no!” said Cecil, a little shyly. She stood 
close to Old Erin and rubbed her nose. “She’s not 
pretty to look at, but I guess she’s a darling,” she 
said. 

“I reckon I guess so, too,” said Father Pat, and 
she knew he was laughing at her. “Old Erin and I 
understand each other. We’re just good pals.” 

He ate the pancakes and bacon, which were good, 
and drank the coffee, which was better than when 
he made it himself, before he said another word. 
“They taught you something else beside book learn¬ 
ing in your college, Sun-top,” he said with satisfac¬ 
tion. “Who were you with?” 

“The Ursulines,” she said. “And we had a 
domestic science class. It was lots of fun and lots of 
good hard work, too. Mother Philippa didn’t care 
who you were—you weren’t allowed to go in for 
Domestic Science until you had won two honor cards, 
and then you peeled potatoes and scraped vegetables. 
... But we did learn to cook, and to sew, and to 
knit—” 

“Good gracious, good gracious!” blinked Father 
Pat. “Psychology, sockology— I never thought to 


222 


BROKEN PATHS 


find ’em together, Sun-top. But I might have known 

you were convent-bred. You’ve got the air of it— 

% 

only you’ve got something else, too. And now I’m 
going to hear the whole story. I know there’s a story. 
Little ladies like you don’t pack a grip and travel 
a few hundred miles at no notice at all without a 
reason—and to visit an old uncle who was a perfect 
stranger until a week ago.” His face was grave now. 
“It was a rash thing to do, Sun-top, and you must 
have kept your guardian angel in dreadful anxiety. 
I hope you can give me reasons for it, I do, indeed! 
I’d hate to think you one of those foolish flyaways 
that I read about in the newspapers—when I happen 
to get ’em,” he added. 

He drummed on the table a minute. 

“And you, John, my boy!” He turned to the little 
lad who sat watching him with eager, observant eyes. 
“You have a story, too, no doubt, but I’ll hear 
Cecilia Mary’s first. You run along out to Old Erin 
and make friends with her. Maybe, if she likes you, 
she’ll let you ride on her to the top of the trail after 
a while, when she gets rested.” 

So John went, gleefully, and Father Pat, serious of 
mien, turned toward his niece. 

“We’ll have it now. Sun-top.” 

Cecil began. First, with the fact of her imminent 
marriage, which she had firmly made up her mind 
should not take place. Back she went, step by step. 


BROKEN PATHS 


223 


to the first meeting with Malcolm Travers, her promise 
given without thought and to please her mother. Back 
farther still to her father’s earlier days, to the days 
of her simple life, when they were “just ordinary 
people” in “the little flat in Sixty-fifth street.” And 
because Father Pat was kind and gentle and seemed 
to understand so well, her tongue was loosened. He 
could see it all, the priest with the wise blue eyes. 
No one had to explain the ambitious mother, the man 
intensely desirous of success—to whom that success 
came beyond all his dreams, and of what followed 
after; how one obstacle after the other was removed, 
and how desires mounted high, so that that which was 
most eagerly sought was the thing just beyond reach. 
And, it secured, another bauble dangled, glittering in 
the sun, that a woman’s vanity might seize upon it! 
And this vanity would use son or daughter or hus¬ 
band in order to rise, ruthlessly. Yet Cecilia loved 
her—“I love her dearly, but I fear her, too.” She 
told him all, her appeal to Senator Hayden, to her 
lover, and then her consultation with Mother Phil¬ 
ippa, who warned her not to go on with the affair, 
but to tell her people so. She had meant to go to 
Renie Ward’s—had left her home to look up the 
trains—and there, in the station, she met little John 
Bidwell, who was setting out for Silver Lode, 
Nevada. That decided her. Now she was here and 
this was the first day of June, and if he would con¬ 
sent, she would write to her people on the seventh. 


224 


BROKEN PATHS 


telling them where she was. For the tenth was her 
father’s birthday and the day of the wedding, and 
she did not want them to know of her whereabouts 
until that day was past. 

“And,” she added quietly, “though I am not going 
to marry Malcolm Travers, my mother, if she knew 
where I was this minute, would come here at once. 
She is probably on her way to Renie Ward’s. She 
will go there, prepared to laugh away my girlish 
fears, my childish nonsense, to appeal to my love for 
her, to ask me to make her happy, not to bring defeat 
to her in her hour of victory. It is not my mother’s 
fault, altogether; she is intoxicated.” 

Father Pat nodded. 

“She can’t see, Father Pat—and she has a 
strength of will as powerful as her ambition. You 
have no idea. People smile at her in their sneering 
way; she overlooks them—just uses them and steps 
on past them. They hate her, too. If she weren’t 
my mother, and I didn’t love her, I’m sure I’d detest 
her.” 

“Sun-top,” said Father Pat, “you’re drawing a 
very sharp picture. Could you tell me, perhaps, n>/n; 
you love her when she’s ridden rough-shod over you 
like this?” 

Cecilia was silent an instant, frowning. 

“Well,” she began, “she’s my mother. She’s 
lovely, too, stately and tall, like a queen, so that 


BROKEN PATHS 


225 


you’d think she was just getting back the things that 
belong to her. And I remember earlier days, when 
Father used to sit with me on his knee and tell us 
the story of the Connemara hills. One night—” 

“Go on, my dear little girl.’’ 

“One night she, too, sat beside us, mending... 
and Father sang. . .his mother’s song. She put her 
hand over his mouth. ‘Tom,’ she said, ‘the Irish have 
one great fault. Just when they’re on the point of 
winning, a gleam from the past melts their hearts 
within them. Tom, from this night on, we’re never 
going to look back.’ ’* 

Cecil’s voice trembled. 

“And, lassie?’’ 

“My father never told me another story, nor sang 
that song again.’’ 

Father Pat’s shoulders sank a little. 

“Well, then—’’ 

“But this Malcolm Travers: I don’t love him. He 
doesn’t love me. I’m my own mistress and I shall 
not go home again unless I can live at least a little 
bit as I want to. I hate all these things my mother 
loves—to me it’s time wasted. I have a little money 
—a few hundred dollars. It will keep me until I can 
get a position. And that’s the whole story, Father 
Pat.’’ 

Father Pat covered his eyes with his hands. Cecil 
did not know what a picture she had drawn, how 


226 


BROKEN PATHS 


she had sketched these characters so that they stood 
out as vividly as if he knew them in the flesh. His 
brother Thomas! Well, often and often, he had 
heard his mother say—God rest her dear soul!— 
“Tommy’ll get along. He’s the only one in the 
family who has a hard streak. The rest of you have 
hearts as big as your bodies. But Tommy’ll get 
along.’’ And Tommy had “got along.” Tommy ivas 
getting along! But he wondered if the blue-eyed 
Irish mother’s spirit had not crept into this girl who 
reminded him of her so much. 

“This is no shack for you, Sun-top,” he said now. 
“But you came to me and I won’t send you away.” 

Cecilia’s face glowed. 

“You might have been braver, and stayed to face 
it. That would have been the more courageous thing 
to do. But as long as you know yourself so well it 
is good to remember that running away is decent 
when one can’t resist temptation, or isn’t strong enough 
of spirit to stand much battering. Discretion has 
always been the better part of valor. But what under 
the sun am I going to do with you) If you were 
homely now, or had a crooked nose, I wouldn’t be 
the least bit alarmed. But there’s not a girl like you 
for miles around—I’ve never seen another who could 
bring the sun with her into a room, and there’s any 
number of gallant lads, who never would look at 
him before, will be casting sheep’s eyes at Father 


BROKEN PATHS 227 

Pat. This afternoon I’ll ride over to Mrs. Mil¬ 
ler’s—” 

“I’m going to stay with Mrs. Nora nights,” said 
Cecil, “and take care of your house during the day. 
Didn’t you know that?” 

“Well...I hadn’t thought of it.” He looked at 
her speculatively. “Did you ever hear tell of the 
Winnereka Ranch, Cecilia Mary?” 

“Father Pat,” said Cecil gravely, “I never even 
thought of the State of Nevada until Basil Torrens 
spoke to me about you. Where is the Winnereka 
Ranch?” 

“It’s a good twelve miles from here and there’s 
a sick man on it—a very sick man. He was like to 
die when he first came, and though he’s none of mine, 
I never pass him by. His name is Hayden, Douglas 
Hayden, and he was once a senator.” 

Cecil looked at him with eyes wide. 

“Of course—it couldn’t ever be mp Senator Hay¬ 
den,” she said. 

“Yet. . .he comes from New York, and he’s not 
well. And...I shouldn’t be surprised. I’ll go out 
of my way a bit when I have Deer Creek for early 
mass Sunday after next, and find out for you. There’s 
room and to spare for you at Winnereka, Cecil. Even 
if it isn’t your Senator Hayden, he’s a fine fellow 
and Nevada-born.” 

“I’m staying here. Uncle Pat,” said Cecil gravely. 


228 


BROKEN PATHS 


It was the first time she had used the term of rela¬ 
tionship and it touched him. “That is, if you—” 

“You like Mrs. Nora?” 

“Yes, and I’m sure she likes me. At least she 
acts as if she does, and I’m not going to ask any 
foolish questions.” 

“Well, after all, it doesn’t matter—and you’ll be 
safe with Michael and Nora. There isn’t over much 
room there, no more than here, but welcome makes 
an easy resting, and that welcome you’re sure of. 
I’ll keep the wee lad with me. He’ll take up but 
small room.” 

“The wee lad? But his father—” 

“Child, dear, he has no father. I buried Jack 
Bidwell nearly a week ago.” 

“Dead?” 

“Yes. Shot-up—dead, and a sudden death, too. 
I was with him at the end, but he never said a word 
to me about the lad’s coming out—not one word, 
or I’d have been on the watch for him or sent word 
to the school. You’ve got to comfort the boy, and 
explain to him. Sun-top. Jack and his partner had a 
falling out, and there’s a sheriff after Loco Dan now, 
God help him. We 11 have to fix up the story for 
little John Bidwell, and I’ll see that no hint comes 
to his ears of the life his father led—though he died 
a good Christian death. It was the best thing he ever 
did, his going out. There’s money enough for the 


BROKEN PATHS 


229 


boy until he’s seventeen and when he goes back, 
you’ll be with him and see to him.” 

“The poor little fellow!” said Cecil. She had 
grown rather pale. “Poor little John! Oh, I shall 
tell him myself. Father Pat—I wouldn’t want any¬ 
one else to do it. I’ve grown to love him already. 
He hadn’t anyone but that father, and now his 
father is gone!” She was silent a few seconds. Then, 
standing up, she moved around the table, and put 
her hand on Father Pat’s arm. 

“Father Pat,” she said, gently, “I want you to 
think of me as a stranger—I am only that, anyhow— 
coming to you for guidance. I’ve been under restraint 
all my life, it seems to me. At college, you know 
how it is. There are certain things to do at certain 
hours. You rise at a certain hour. Everything moves 
by the clock. That sort of routine you can under¬ 
stand.” 

He nodded. 

“I accepted it. Then, two years ago, when I 
reached home for good—a woman—I found that my 
mother wished to supervise my going out and my 
coming in, how I talked, walked, dressed—to whom 
I spoke, to whom I did not speak. I subsided. I 
became a nonentity. I never expressed an opinion, 
I never solicited attention. I was a fool. Stupid!” 

Father Pat shifted her hand and looked up into 
her face. 


230 


BROKEN PATHS 


“I am telling you the truth. Senator Hayden’s 
championship of me first opened my eyes to the fact 
that there was danger in this attitude. Since then I 
have been like a person whose head is just above 
water. Every once in a while the water covered me, 
and I had to hold my mouth higher, so that I would 
not drown. I discovered that the apathy into which 
I had sunk under the influence of a strong will had 
become—not a defense, but a weakness. It was almost 
second nature. I did not want to be roused from it. 
It was easier to drift than to demand. You see?" 

"I see," nodded Father Pat. 

"Then came the day I made the great plunge— 
and when I sat in the train that brought me out here 
to you I knew I had done one thing: I had cut loose 
from that part of me which I had grown to fear. So 
I did not have an instant’s hesitation. No matter 
what happened to me, no matter how you received 
me, it was worth it—to know that the real Cecilia 
Emory had found the courage she had just laid aside 
for a little while." 

"Now then, now then," soothed Father Pat, for 
her voice shook. 

"Fm here—and Michael and Nora—though I’ve 
been with them only a few hours—they’ve told me 
...things." She looked about the room. "Father 
Pat—are you satisfied to live like this?" 

He grinned. 




BROKEN PATHS 


231 


“What can’t be cured, must be endured, Cecilia 
Mary.” 

“No sheets on your bed? No pillows? An old 
piece of ticking for a towel? The beans on that shelf 
your food? Stale bread? Imitation coffee?” 

“Well, my child—” Father Pat stretched out his 
long limbs and the smile on his lips crept to his eyes. 
“One gets used to everything. We have green things 
from Michael’s garden, and I have a patch of my 
own behind the shack. I had a few fresh eggs— 
only now the chickens are moulting. Michael’s tough 
little bantams seem to do well here. Michael’s a 
great friend to me.” 

“Yes,” said Cecil gravely, “I can see that. He 
just simply took charge of me yesterday when I 
came in on the stage from Bent River and when I 
got here he went right after Mrs. Nora. And then 
this morning he returned the horse to Silver Lode.” 

“Yes,” said Father Pat. “That was right.” 

“I’d like to ride a little,” said Cecil. “Couldn’t 
I get a horse for myself?” 

“Well,” said Father Pat dubiously, “there’s Old 
Erin—when I’m not away—” 

“Oh, no—I mean one for myself.” 

Father Pat looked her straight in the eyes. 

“I can’t buy you one, Cecilia Mary.” 

“Uncle Pat!” she was shocked. “I don’t mean 
that. Surely someone would be glad to let me 
borrow a horse if I paid him for it—” 


232 


BROKEN PATHS 


“Leave that to Michael,” said Father Pat. “And 
follow his advice about riding, too. He knows just 
where you oughtn’t to venture—you’ve got to be 
careful.” 

“I’ll be careful—and I’ll do as Michael says,” 
answered Cecil. “I’ve been taught obedience. 
Obedience! I am perfect in the part!” 

“She must be a powerful strong-willed woman,” 
said Father Pat, irrelevantly. 

“Oh, she is!” said Cecil. “And 9he’s wonderful, 
too—she’s clever and she’s beautiful—Colin is like 
her, tall and dark and handsome. I never saw any¬ 
one I admired more than mother—with the exception 
of Joyce Moore.” 

“Joyce?” asked Father Pat. “Joyce.. .Moore?” 

“Yes—the girl Malcolm Travers is in love with, 
and who will not marry him. She lives with an aunt, 
a Harriet Joyce, who is, I think, a terrible creature, 
cross and cranky as can be.” 

“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” said Father Pat, 
running his hand through his white hair. “Say that 
name again, child. You’re sure you have it right?” 

“Oh, I know her. I’ve met her. Lovely, stately—” 

“God bless us, but things do give us a terrible jolt 
once in a while,” muttered Father Pat. “And what 
has God in store for you all, bringing this to me out 
here—where I’ve been forgotten for twenty years. 



BROKEN PATHS 


233 


Welcome be His holy will. He’s the Master! I can 
only wait on Him and see what’s to come of it.” 

“Where’s the church?” asked Cecil now. 

“Oh, St. Joseph’s is over at Silver Lode,” an¬ 
swered Father Pat. “I’m placed here on the moun¬ 
tains half-way between Silver Lode and Deer Creek, 
so that sick-calls can reach me from either place with¬ 
out delay. I was at Deer Creek last night. I say 
mass at Silver Lode at six-thirty on Sunday and I 
get to Deer Creek at nine for my second mass there. 
That’s on the first Sunday of the month. On the 
second Sunday, I’m out at Deer Creek at six-thirty 
and on to Willow Bend at ten-thirty. The third 
Sunday mass is at Silver Lode at six-thirty and off 
to Otter Bridge for ten-thirty. If there’s a fifth 
Sunday in the month I like to get to Winnereka 
Ranch, for I have about a dozen Catholics there. 
And so it goes on, my dear, and so it has been going 
on for the last twenty years.” 

Cecil was staring at him, wide-eyed. 

“How many Catholics have you. Uncle Pat?” 

“About two hundred altogether, I should judge. 
And I pick up a stray here and there, and make a 
convert or two and act as peacemaker when the 
boys have grievances. It’s not a bad life on the 
whole. Sun-top,” he said. “Don’t forget I’m a 
missionary.” 

“No,” said Cecil. 


234 


BROKEN PATHS 


“Of course there are lots of things I’d like to 
have that I haven’t got now. The church is poor, 
and I can’t reserve the Blessed Sacrament in it. 
But I can’t complain, I can’t complain! There’s 
no prejudice here, thank God—and the Baptist min¬ 
ister down at Silver Lode is a nice little fellow—he 
lets my people alone and doesn’t do any slandering, 
which is more than can be said of other mission sta¬ 
tions. I often thought myself lucky to have a man 
like him in that church the other side of Silver Lode.’* 

“Why—’’ began Cecil. She was startled, indeed. 
This was her father’s brother, who surely did more 
good in a week than her father did in a year. He 
lived here, unknown, harrassed, poverty-stricken, 
thankful that he could work unhampered. Oh, she 
must be able to do something worth while! 

“Father Pat,*’ she said solemnly, “I think God 
just got tired of my idleness when He helped me 
make up my mind. Oh, whether I’m here a little 
while or a long while, won’t you let me help?’* 

Father Pat had a roguish and merry grin, of which 
no years could deprive him. 

“Cecilia Mary,’’ he said, “I’m not a betting man, 
but if I were in that line of business I’d lay good 
odds on you increasing the church attendance this 
coming Sunday at Silver Lode. That’ll be helping 
some. And now about your horse. I’ve just remem¬ 
bered that Jack Bidwell had a nice little horse that 


BROKEN PATHS 


235 


you can use for a week. I'll send Michael down 
after him. I’m going to sell him and turn the 
money over to the boy, but I hate to see the animal 
going to anyone who wouldn’t love him. Jack made 
a great pet of him.” 

Later, with her arm about John’s shoulders, Cecilia 
told him of his father’s death, pressing his dark head 
close to her. He was unused to caresses and this 
was sweet to him, and while he heard her quietly 
enough there was a mournful expression in the large 
dark eyes. 

“Of course, I didn’t know my dad very well,” 
he said, “but at least he belonged to me, and I 
belonged to him. Now I have nothing at all, only 
that old school, and I hate it.” 

“You’ve got me, John,” said Cecil. “On the way 
out here we adopted each other—to be sister and 
brother until we reached your father. Now, we’ve 
got to say it all over again.” 

They did, solemnly, and Cecilia added to the 

formula: “And I will go to Cecilia Emory for 

everything I need, and in all my troubles, until I 
»> 

am a man. 

Then she kissed him, and with the grave serious¬ 
ness of childhood, he accepted the compact, as if 
this were all that was necessary to give him one of 
God’s best gifts after a mother—a good sister. It 
was to prove true, in Cecilia Emory’s case. And 


236 


BROKEN PATHS 


Father Pat found them so, with her arms about him, 
the boy subdued, but not unhappy. 

"I’ve told him, Uncle Pat, and we’ve adopted each 
other. We’re brother and sister now, and I think 
we could use an uncle between us, couldn’t we, 
John?" 

"Yes, Cecil," said John, his gray eyes fastened 
on the priest’s face. 

"We’ll talk that over later," said Father Pat. 
"John will have to tell me a little about himself. 
You see his father made me his guardian before he 
died and his father was a Catholic. Did you know 
that, John?" 

"No, sir—no. Father." 

"Well, then! And your mother, who died when 
you were bom, was a Catholic, too. Cecilia Mary," 
he added, turning to her, "I don’t think things hap¬ 
pen without reason, and unless I make a great mis¬ 
take there is much good coming out of your visit 
to Silver Lode." 

"I think I see it already," said Cecil. "Here’s a 
little boy all alone in the world finds a sister all by 
himself; don’t you think God did that?" 

John looked up at her with a sad smile on his lips. 

"You know, Cecil, it’s the first time I ever thought 
of blaming things on God," he said, at which Father 
Pat laughed. 

"See that, Cecil. We know what he means, but 


BROKEN PATHS 237 

it sounds as if there was a wee bit more to it. You 
might be a calamity to him yet. How do you like 
Old Erin, John?” 

“She’s fine, Father Pat—I think she’d let me ride 
her.” 

“Indeed she would, John. She’s very sweet- 
tempered.” 

“We’ll get you a horse of your own and a real 
cowboy outfit,” promised Cecil. “If there isn’t any¬ 
thing to fit you, why I’ll make it.” 

And at this the boy’s sense of loss became sub¬ 
merged in joyous thoughts of the future. Three days 
later, Cecil rode into Silver Lode, with John on 
Michael’s horse behind her. By this time she had 
been over a week away from home and homesickness 
was the last thought in her mind. She had written 
several letters, and now she purchased such canned 
goods as seemed to promise most variety of food. 
In one of the letters she mailed there was an order 
to a supply house for the simple furniture which 
she felt Father Pat’s cabin ought to contain. “And 
now, John, we’ll go down and look at the church,” 
she said, when she had attended to her mail and 
paid for her purchases. 

Outside Startin’s door a crowd had gathered, for 
the word had sped through Silver Lode that Father 
Pat’s girl had come to town. As she turned out of 
Startin’s in her neat white blouse and smart skirt, her 


238 BROKEN PATHS 

golden hair uncovered, a silence fell. Truly, it was 
a pleasure to look at her. Her blue eyes went over 
them quickly—they responded with true Western 
friendliness and big blonde Lon West stepped out 
of the ranks and made her a sweeping bow. 

“If any of us can be of service, Miss Emory,” 
he said, “please command us.” 

She stood doubtfully. She was no longer the 
stranger girl of three days before—she was Father 
Pat’s niece; his welcome had given her that 
assurance. 

“Why...I don’t know,” she said, smiling cheer¬ 
fully at Lon West. “Perhaps you can help if you 
care to come with me.” 

The big fellow’s face burned red. He had not 
expected such an honor. 

“Why. . .1. .he stammered, and caught himself. 
“Why, of course...I am honored, Miss Emory.” 

“Yes?” said Cecil. “Well, I am going to St. 
Joseph’s. I want to see what sort of church Father 
Pat has.” 

Glances were exchanged. Lon straightened up, 
and his glance swept the crowd. A few in the rear 
immediately disappeared. 

“I move, gentlemen,” he said, “that we all accom¬ 
pany Miss Emory.” 



Chapter XIV 
ROSARY MOUNTAIN 

I T was a queer procession. Cecilia led her horse, 
Lon West walking beside her, with little John and 
about a dozen men straggling behind. Before they 
had gone twenty yards, half of these had disap¬ 
peared and at the first bend the others found it con¬ 
venient to slip away also, so that when they came 
to the door of the chapel not one remained but Lon 
himself. Cecilia stood gazing at the little log shack. 
It had evidently been built by the same hands that 
had erected the cabin on the mountain side—Father 
Pat’s own. Within there were benches—about 
twenty on each side, and there was a wooden floor. 
The small altar was of wood, painted white, above 
it a large wooden crucifix, and farther up, on the 
wall, a framed picture of St. Joseph, with Our 
Lord in his arms. Cecilia stood at the rail and looked 
about her. There were two candlesticks, and a little 
table at the epistle side, and a chair. There were 
no statues, but there were some nicely framed “Sta¬ 
tions of the Cross”—good pictures, covered with 
glass. Cecilia found out later that these pictures, the 
one above the altar, and the marble holy water stoup 
at the door, were the gifts of a pastor in the East. 
She caught her breath sharply, her teeth sinking 


239 



240 


BROKEN PATHS 


into her under lip as when she was deeply moved. 
A mist rose before her eyes. Father Pat had been 
working here for twenty years. A sob rose in her 
throat. Lon West touched her arm. 

“The people... the Catholics... are very poor, 
Miss Emory,” he said gently. “And the rest of us 
.. .well, no church means much to any of us, I 
reckon.” 

She nodded. 

“At Deer Creek.. .it’s not as good as this, and 
the other places have no church at all. I know, 
•because I helped Father Pat fix this up for Christ¬ 
mas—and I might add I’m not his kind. Miss 
Emory. 

Again she nodded, but she hardly heard him; 
her face was very sad as she turned from the rail, 
and when she closed the door of the church behind 
her, she stood, her hands resting on the rough wood, 
her eyes downcast. He seemed to realize that she 
was greatly moved, but he did not know why. He 
thought she was upset because her uncle had to serve 
in such poverty, so he tried to comfort her. 

“They’re really not bad, Miss Emory,” he said. 
“Last year they bought a nice wood stove, and it 
makes the place very comfortable when it gets cold. 
And they’ve made fine shutters for the windows. 
Besides, Father Pat is used to all this by now.” 

She looked at him with a shadow in her eyes. 


BROKEN PATHS 241 

And God, too, I suppose,” she said. “But I’m 
sure the people are good—Father Pat loves them. 
He says they have hearts of gold. It isn’t that. 
It’s the waste that goes on while—” She made a 
characteristic gesture with her hands. She thought 
of the ring which she had dropped into Malcolm 
Travers’ pocket, and of the one just like it which 
Colin had bought for Muriel. “It will set you back 
a couple of ’thou,’ Dad, but she’s worth it.’* And 
her father had nodded, carelessly. “I’ll buy you 
the finest string of pearls. . .or a diamond tiara,’’ he 
had said to her—and to Cecilia, at that moment, the 
pearls seemed to be about her throat, choking her. 
Oh, she thought, with passionate fervor, she was 
glad that she had come out here—glad, glad! Yes, 
God had done this thing for her. And now she 
would do something for God. 

She cleared her throat. 

“I’ve never seen anything quite so poor,” she said, 
a little unsteadily, “and it hurts. Oh, of course. 
I’ve read of how our priests are working, but I 
didn’t realize it.’’ 

The tremor in her voice subdued Lon West. He 
could scarcely sympathize with her, such a matter 
was not within his ken, but she was the loveliest thing 
he had ever seen and he was proud to be walking 
beside her. They went back to Startin’s, where she 
found her purchases packed and ready for her, and 
as soon as she had disappeared down the trail Lon 




242 


BROKEN PATHS 


West was surrounded by those who had vanished 
at the mention of her destination. 

“She sure was charmed with Silver Lode chapel,” 
he said, in his drawling tones. 

“What did she say about it?” asked one, curi¬ 
ously, but Lon West shrugged his shoulders. 

“She sure was pleased with its interior decoration,” 
he added. “She never saw a church so handsomely 
got up.” And while they waited for more, he 
turned on his heel and walked away, adding as he 
did so: “For further particulars, see the lady.” 

But Cecilia on the way home, trusting herself to 
the sure-footed little horse, was recounting her plans 
to John, who listened to her, round-eyed. 

“And Father Pat is to know nothing about this 
until it’s done,” she said. “We’ll get Mr. Michael 
to help, and that big man—he looks so strong, he’ll 
be good to handle the heavy things!” Poor Lon! 
This prosaic remark might have hurt his growing 
interest in her. “We’ll wait till Father Pat goes 
away for several days and then we’ll fix everything. 
First the house, and then the church.” 

“But the money, Cecil—” 

‘I think I have enough to do that,” said the girl, 
“and it could not be better spent. We must leave 
a substantial church and a nice house when we go 
away, John. Nothing silly or hard to keep right 
and clean, but plain, and strong and sensible.” 


BROKEN PATHS 


243 


Cecilia had brought nothing with her that could 
be used to make Father Pat’s shack more comfortable. 
Her bag contained only the most necessary articles, 
and if she had not thrust in, at the last minute, two 
or three extra blouses rolled into a tight bundle, she 
would have been at a loss. But in some unaccount¬ 
able way she found that nothing mattered—and that 
even in the past few days the old life seemed the 
more unreal of the two. This could only be due to 
one thing—her sense of freedom. 

She had bought cans of fruit and other delicacies 
such as Startin’s shelves afforded, and had had a 
chat with Jim Startin himself in regard to future 
orders. And she had been experimenting with pan 
and pot at her uncle's primitive hearth-stone, and 
though she emerged blackened of hands and with a 
smudge or two on her delicate face, she found out 
that even a hearth-fire can be made to bow to supe¬ 
rior culinary skill. 

When they went back, Nora was examining the 
bags of white muslin into which Cecilia had por¬ 
tioned “that dreadful coffee.” Michael was at the 
“green patch,” and while John took upon himself the 
glad work of putting the horses in the little lean-to 
Father Pat had thrown up for them, Cecil told Nora 
what she had done. But Nora grumbled. 

“You shouldn’t go into town lest Michael be with 
ye," she said. “There’s a lot of those idle do-noth- 


244 


BROKEN PATHS 


ings at Startin’s, particularly since that woman’s 
show’ll be going on tonight and tomorrow night—” 

“Show?” asked Cecil, puzzled. 

“Why, yes. .. there’s some kind of a spiritualist 
woman going to give a show. Didn’t you see the 
big posters at Startin’s?” 

“I never looked,” confessed Cecil. 

“Well, it means that every man and woman that 
can get to Silver Lode tonight will get there,” said 
Nora. “And as usual Jim Startin is improving his 
time by giving a dance. Do you mean to tell me 
Lon West didn’t say anything about that dance?” 

“Not one word,” said Cecil. “Is—is Mr. West 

a do-nothing?” 

“He sure is,” affirmed Nora. “An’ I like his 
impudence standing and talking to Father Pat’s girl.” 

“But I talked to him,” said Cecil, “and what’s 
more, out of all that crowd he was the only one who 
came over to the church with me. And he told me 
he’d helped Father Pat fix it up last Christmas— 
but that he never went to church because he wasn’t 
anything.” 

“Oh!” said Nora, and her hands, which had been 
resting on her hips, fell limply. “So Lon West went 
to church with you? That’s not bad.” 

“I thought it was very nice—” 

But they were interrupted. Michael O’Brien’s 
voice, hardly civil, fell upon their ears. 


BROKEN PATHS 245 

u We’ve come over to see Miss Emory, Mike, and 
we want to talk to Father Pat first.** 

“Well, Father Pat isn’t here, and Miss Emory 
isn’t meeting visitors.” 

“‘Listen, Mike—haven’t I always been a good 
friend of yours? Haven’t I? Can’t you just let 
us talk to her and invite her to the dance tonight? 
She hasn’t met any honest-to-goodness bunch of West¬ 
erners yet—” 

Cecil giggled. Nora held up a warning finger— 
then stood in the doorway. 

“Perhaps she isn’t wanting to meet them,” she 
said caustically. “Well, I declare. Ye lost no 
time. I’ll be bound! Benny Barnard. And Jim 
Hannaford! And Jule Smith! Honest-to-goodness 
bunch of Westerners—” 

“We’ve appointed ourselves a committee of three 
to ask Miss Emory to this dance at Startin’s,” said 
Benny Barnard, stubbornly, “and we’re going to stay 
here until we see her.” 

“Ye’ll have to see Father Pat first, then,” said 
Nora. “Now, don’t be foolish, boys. This little 
girl has come on a visit to her old uncle, and he feels 
responsible for her. And he’s handed the respon¬ 
sibility to us when he isn’t here. So have sense. 
He’ll be back soon. You wait on him, and ask him 
about it.” 

But Cecil, very quietly and determinedly, put her 


246 


BROKEN PATHS 


hand on Nora’s shoulder and moved out in front of 
her. The sunlight set her hair glistening and her 
blue eyes were dancing as she gazed up at them. 

“Gentlemen,” she said, “I can answer just as well 
as Father Pat. I wouldn’t go to a dance while I’m 
here—my time with my uncle is too short as it is 
and I don’t want to miss one minute of my visit. But 
I certainly thank you very much and appreciate your 
courtesy.” 

They swept their hats to the ground, and then 
turning their horses galloped back along the trail. 
Nora watched them go. 

“I suppose I’ll have to be shooing them away 
like this all the time,” she said. 

“Yes,” nodded Cecil, “do shoo them, but don’t 
bring poor Father Pat into it! And now I’m going 
up to the very top of that crag and practice rifle¬ 
shooting.” 

“Be sure you don’t look down the barrel to see 
if it’s loaded. Miss Cecilia Mary,” said Michael, 
with a very grave face, and Cecil laughed as she 
swung the gun under her arm, and went off. 

But she did not practice her rifle-shooting; instead 
she made her way leisurely enough to the top of the 
cliff, and seated herself. She had been here the preced¬ 
ing day, with John, and now she came back to it 
alone because it satisfied her so completely; and the 
perpetual “why” asserted itself. Soon—in a few 




SHE WOULD CALL THIS SPOT ROSARY MOUNTAIN 























BROKEN PATHS 


247 


weeks at the utmost—this life would be left behind 
her, and even at the very thought came a sensation 
of regret. Everything was so big out here. There 
was room to breathe, the air seemed fresh from God, 
and she was surely close to God up here on the 
mountain-tops, closer than she had ever felt in the 
valleys of the city streets. She took her beads from 
her pocket. She would call this spot Rosary Moun¬ 
tain . . . and perhaps. . . some day. . . 

She said the joyful mysteries through, meditating 
thoughtfully on each one in turn. And when she 
had finished she sat with her chin cupped in her 
hand. In a little while she would go to confession 
to her own uncle, and she would receive the Bread 
of Life from her uncle’s hand! Her own uncle— 
a priest of God. She wondered if her father knew. 
If he did, how could he keep from boasting of it? 
That wonderful, that mystical connection between 
this world and the next, between God and His crea¬ 
ture—the priest! Her father’s own brother—a 
priest! 

She pitied him, she loved him, but most of all, 
she reverenced him. And there was something of 
all three in her manner toward him, which Father 
Pat himself felt and did not try to explain. And 
when at last the shadows began to lengthen she rose 
and went down the trail to the log hut. Father Pat 
was home. Seated on the doorstep, with Mike on 


248 


BROKEN PATHS 


the bench that held the big water-bucket, they were 
engaged in strong argument 

“Will you listen, man?” Father Pat was saying. 
“It isn’t afraid of your faith I am at all; I’m afraid 
of your hot head. You’ll do something that will 
start a fight as sure as God made little apples—and 
then they’ll say I sent you there to break it up.” 

“Sure, now, if ’twas a religious meeting I would 
not ask to go,” said Michael O’Brien, “but I’m 
plain curious an* I’ve never been to one of the things 
in me life.” 

“They’re all fakes, Michael.” 

“I know that, Father. But it’ll be lots of fun! 
Old Beany Bosworth’ll sure be there and maybe he’ll 
try to talk to Maggie. Oh, lor’, lor’, can’t you 
see it? Hear it?” Michael doubled up on the bench. 
“Here’s Miss Cecil,” he added. “Maybe, now, you’ll 
like to come along with me?” 

“Where are you going, Mr. Michael?” 

“There’s that spiritual show down in Startin’s 
tonight—Madame Caroline she calls herself—a 
weird-looking creature, skinny as a rail. It’s the 
first chance I’ve ever had in all me life to see one 
of them working. Come on along with me. Miss 
Cecilia, dear.” 

“Indeed not,” said Cecilia, emphatically. “A priest 
came to our college once and showed us just how 
they did all their tricks—he did them himself for us 
right there. Indeed I won’t go, Mr. Michael.” 


BROKEN PATHS 249 

“When it isn’t nonsense it’s deviltry,” added Father 

Pat. 

“Sure how could any more deviltry get into Silver 
Lode?” pleaded Michael. “Glory be. I’d give some¬ 
thing to see Madame Caroline alone for two min¬ 
utes. I’d put her up to more knowledge of the buckos 
of Silver Lode than her little devils could ever find 
out for her. Especially the three swashbuckling 
heroes that followed Miss Cecilia up the trail a bit 
while since to ask her to the dance.” 

“What? Already?” asked Father Pat. 

“Indeed, yes. An* the fun’s only startin’. It’s 
a fence you’ll have to be buildin* around her if she 
stays here any length of time. There’s any num¬ 
ber of good-looking, likable chaps. Miss Cecil, would 
be glad to be your slaves for life, if ye—” 

“Don’t be filling Cecil’s head with nonsense,” 
began Father Pat. 

But Cecil laughed. 

“There’s no room for nonsense in it,” she said. 
“Uncle Pat, I was down to your little church 
today.” 

Under cover of their talk Michael O’Brien slipped 
off, for he had fully determined to go to the “spir¬ 
itual” and he was afraid that Father Pat would for¬ 
bid him outright. And Father Pat, explaining to his 
interested listener the early days of Silver Lode and 
the beginning of St. Joseph’s, was cut short by a 



250 BROKEN PATHS 

rider who came up from Deer Creek on his way over 
the trail. 

“Old Monty was very bad when I left his 
cabin,’’ he told the priest. “He said something about 
you coming—” His eyes were fastened on Cecilia 
and now Father Pat had to present him. 

“This is the young lady to whom you mailed the 
letter a short while back,*’ he added, wondering why 
Cecil smiled (she had recalled the fifty-cent stamp). 
“I’ll have to be going on to old Monty, Cecil. I 
promised him I’d come whenever he sent for me. 
He’s a good, faithful soul, old Monty.*’ And then 
when Ned had gone, “I’ll pass Michael’s about 
nine-thirty,*’ he said, “and I’ll give you a hail, if 
you’re not in bed.’* 

“When can I go to confession?” she asked. 

“Oh, the confessions are in the morning, before 
mass begins,” he said. “Lots of time for that.” 

“Well, when you hail, I’ll have a cup of coffee 
ready,” she said. “And maybe something better, if 
Nora’11 let me fuss—” 

“By the look of things,” smiled Father Pat, 
“Nora’s glad to have you fuss.” He whistled and 
Old Erin answered with a whinny. And Cecilia 
stood looking after him as he went away, shading 
her eyes with her hand. She had only just begun 
to realize, she thought, what wonderful work he was 
doing, how hard it was, and how little comfort he 


BROKEN PATHS 25 f 

had! And then Michael peeped out at her from 
the doorway. 

He s off—and so am I—down to Silver Lode,*’ 
he said, “an* be saying nothing to Nora, Miss Cecilia, 
unless she says something to you.” 

* Not a word, Mr. Michael,” smiled Cecil, as she 
called to John. “Let’s be setting out for Mrs. Nora’s 
ourselves, boy, for it will soon be dark.” 

They found Nora alone in the cabin. Fortunately, 
she made no inquiries about Michael, for her mind 
was full of another care. 

“Do you think you’ll be lonesome if I left ye for 
an hour or two?” she questioned. “Mattie Jones’ 
man is not well, it’s his lungs, poor chap, arid I’d 
like to look in on them. He’s one of Father Pat’s 
converts and they take it kindly if you make inquiries. 
I’ll light the lantern, and be home as soon as I can.” 

“Why,” said Cecil, “I hope you wouldn’t be stay¬ 
ing on my account. Haven’t I John here to keep 
me company? For Father Pat has gone to old 
Monty’s and I promised him a cup of coffee when 
he passes here about ten. There’ll be one for you, 
too, Nora, when you come along. And I’d surely 
like to mess a bit, and see if I could make a cake.” 

“Good glory, child, mess all ye’ve a mind to,” 
said Nora. “I’ll grant there’s a charm in your fin¬ 
gers, Miss Cecilia, but I doubt it’s working on that 
old wood stove.” 



252 


BROKEN PATHS 


“Never mind the stove,’* chided Cecil. “I think 
you don’t talk right to that stove—that’s what’s the 
matter with it.’* 

So Nora took the lantern in one hand, and with 
a shawl over her arm set out, while John and Cecil 
made preparations for the great experiment. Per¬ 
haps Cecil did have a charm in her fingers, for after 
much careful maneuvering the cake was finished. 
She stood it on the table, a brown, crusty, sweet¬ 
smelling loaf. And then she and John stood off 
admiring it. 

“I never made a better-looking one, John,’’ she 
said, half-laughing. A knock sounded on the door. 

“Oh, my, there’s Father Pat—and the cake’s too 
hot to cut and the coffee isn’t ready. You’re an 
hour earlier than you said you’d be,” she continued 
as she threw open the door. But Father Pat did not 
enter. Instead Lon West paused on the threshold— 
only an instant. Then he came in and closed the 
door behind him. He was irreproachably and gor¬ 
geously clad in the conventional outfit of the hills. 

“I reckon I’ve got to have just one little word 
with you. Miss Emory,” he said. 


Chapter XV 
FOUND 

C ECILIA stared at this apparition with eyes that 
seemed twice their natural size. Slowly she 
loosened Nora’s apron from about her neck, and 
John sprang up from the table and drew close to 
her, as if desirous of protecting her. The strange 
young man smiled into her startled face. 

“Miss Emory, I'm here to ask you to do me a 
very great favor,’’ he said. 

“Well,” said Cecil, not unkindly, “I’m sure you've 
been mighty nice to me, Mr. West, and if I can 
grant this favor. . .why, I will.” 

“You are... adorable, Miss Emory.” 

The girl lifted her shoulders. 

“Really, Mr. West?” 

“And if Father Pat were here I know he’d say 
a good word for me.” 

“Oh! Would that be necessary?” She looked at 
him coolly, and her eyes were like blue ice. “If 
you want me to do anything, please tell me what it 
is. And if you want a favor, just ask it. Then 
I’ll see.” 

The young man lowered his sombrero and folded 
his arms. 


253 


254 


BROKEN PATHS 


“There's a dance tonight at Startin's," he said, 

“and I sure would like the pleasure of your com- 
*»* 

pany! 

Cecil's teeth flashed. 

“That's a favor I could not grant, if I would, Mr. 
West," she said. “I wish it had been something 
else, something really in my power." 

“Why isn't it in your power?" he asked. “A 
short ride down the mountains—just as you are— 
one turn on the floor—and you’ll be back here in an 
hour and a half." 

“But my uncle would not wish it, Mr. West. And 
even if he did, I do not care to go." She spoke 
with quiet decision. 

Lon West shrugged his shoulders. 

“We don’t stand on much ceremony. Miss Emory, 
and a girl as pretty as you has a right to give a fel¬ 
low a chance. I’ve bet everything I own in the 
world—even my shirt—with those three chaps you 
saw today, that you’d give me one dance. Will you. 
Miss Emory?" 

Cecil frowned, her eyes meeting his. 

“I won’t, Mr. West." 

“I’m sorry. Miss Emory, if you don’t like it*— 
but you’ve got to. Come, now. Be a real sport 
for once in your life." 

They were unfortunate words. Cecil’s eyes 
blazed. “Be a sport," Colin had said. “Buck up. 


BROKEN PATHS 


255 


child! Be a sport!’* had been her father’s remark. 

Take a sporting chance,” said Malcolm Travers. 
And now—Cecil looked at this daring young man 
who, in line with all the others who had come into 
her life, tried to cow her into going against her own 
desires. And so unconsciously had she become part 
of this country into which she had entered a stranger, 
that when her hand fell on the hilt of the little pistol 
—Father Pat’s gift—thrust into the pocket of her 
skirt, she pulled it out, quickly, and leveled it 

‘‘Be a sport,” she said. “Yes—I will. But in 
my own way, Mr. West. It seems to me that the 
synonym for sport is fool. I’m not going to be 
any kind of a sport excepting the kind I choose to 
be, and if you look at me like that, or try to come 
near me, I warn you I am a very bad shot. I never 
did anything more dangerous than hit a bull’s-eye in 
an archery tournament, so if this goes off I can’t 
promise it won’t hit you. Just you sit down there 
on that stool, Mr. West, and wait for Father Pat. 
You can be the sport, if you like.” 

Lon West looked at her uneasily. Her face was 
white, and he wasn’t quite sure what the expression 
in her eyes meant. She was neither a silly girl nor 
a scared tenderfoot. She was hopping mad. “Be 
a sport!” The very echo of the words made her 
jiggle her revolver carelessly, and he wilted. 

‘‘Say! Easy, there,” he warned. “That thing’s 
liable to go off.” 


256 


BROKEN PATHS 


“I*m telling you that,** said Cecil. “It is.” 

“It’s no crime to ask a girl to a dance. Miss 

“Maybe not—but you didn’t ask. You told me 
I had to come—I had to come!’* 

“I take it back. Miss Emory,** he said pleadingly. 
“Let me off and I’ll go away—honestly I will.’* 

She looked at him reflectively. 

“You’re strong, Mr. West—you could lift me 
up with one hand—and you’ve bet your shirt! No 
. . .1 don’t think I’ll trust you. I’ll wait until Father 
Pat comes. But we won’t waste any time. John, 
get out your catechism, and move that lamp near 
you on the table. Study out loud.’* 

So Cecil stood, the revolver between her fingers, 
and John repeated the words of the catechism, Cecil 
helping him. No more welcome sound ever smote 
on any ears than the hoofbeats of Old Erin outside 
the door and Father Pat’s lusty voice calling Cecilia 
Mary. In a trice the revolver was hidden in her 
skirt pocket, and Cecil was bending over the stove, 
drawing the coffee pot nearer to the leaping flame. 

“The fire smells good,’’ said Father Pat. “The 
mountain air is sharp.*’ He saw Lon West then, 
and his lips parted, while West shifted uneasily. 

“Mr. West came to ask me to the dance. Father 
Pat,’’ said Cecilia Mary. “And he thought he’d 
wait for you.*’ 




SO CECIL STOOD, THE REVOLVER BETWEEN ILEK FINGERS 


4 






BROKEN PATHS 


257 


“Don’t be silly, Lon,” said Father Pat “You 
know I wouldn’t let my niece go to Startin’s. I’ve 
got nothing against you at all, but she’s mine, and 
I’m responsible for her.” 

“You see, Mr. West?” said Cecil sweetly. “Now 
are you quite satisfied? And Uncle Pat, don’t you 
think we could give him some hot coffee, too?” 

“No harm in that, child, no harm in that,” said 
the priest. 

“By Jove—you are a sport!” said Lon West, 
under his breath. “And I’ll be darned if I care 
whether I lose my shirt or not!” He waved his 
hand. “I’ll not indulge in the hot coffee,” he added, 
“but I’m awfully obliged to you just the same.” 

“What’s he talking about?” asked Father Pat, 
as the young man went out. 

“Something about a shirt,” said Cecilia, innocently 
enough. “There’s the cake. Uncle Pat,” she added, 
“and it was cooked in Nora’s stove. I talked to it 
—I honestly think even a stove has feelings.” 

Father Pat sat down to the home-baked cake and 
coffee. 

“Cecilia Mary,” he said, “it’s a lucky thing for 
your old uncle that you’ll be going soon. Tomorrow 
you’ll write to your folks, and then away you’ll 
vanish. I’ll be glad when you’re off, Cecilia Mary. 
I never knew my mother when she was young, but 
she must have been like you, for you’ve her ways. 


258 


BROKEN PATHS 


the very ways she had when she was older and had 
the cares of a pack of children on her, God bless 
her.” 

“Father Pat, I’ve never been so contented in my 
life as I’ve been with you,” said Cecil, in a low 
voice. “I wish I could arrange to stay forever.” 

“That’s nonsense, avicfc, and the sign of a soft 
nature. You’ve got work to do that you’ve been 
trained for—and it mustn’t be lost out here in the 
mountains with a poor old man whose stint is nearly 
done. You’ve brought me sunshine, Cecilia Mary 
—not that I lack God’s glorious sun on the top of 
these mountains, but you’ve put it in my heart—so 
I want you to get right back where you belong, 
before I get too used to it. Moreover, this is a 
mighty fine cake, and I’d like to know why you’re 
eating none of it. There’s surely magic in that 
stove of Nora’s.” 

Cecil’s laughing answer died on her lips, for there 
was another interruption as Michael and Nora came 
in together. Nora’s face lighted up with pleasure 
when she saw the priest. 

“Father Pat, I think if that Jones fellow can get 
along another month, we’ll save him yet,” she said. 

“There’s no telling,” said Father Pat. “But come 
and see what Cecilia Mary did with your old stove.” 

“She made that!” exclaimed Nora, in astonish¬ 
ment. 


BROKEN PATHS 


259 


“I tell you, Nora, she’s got a fairy hidden in her 
pocket. She caught him of a Friday night at the 
full of the moon when he came to get his brogeen 
mended. And he taught her how to coax angel 
cake out of a rusty stove in the hills of the West.” 

“Sure, your Reverence, ’twould seem so,” said 
Nora. 

“And do the fairies come to Moycullen?” asked 
Cecil with the most innocent face in the world, at 
which Nora clapped her hands in glee and Michael 
hit his arms together as if he were warming himself. 

“ *Tis the fairy itself is talking,” said Father Pat. 
He looked at her with keen interest. “The mind 
of a child is a wonderful thing. Will you tell me, 
acushla , how you remember Moycullen, and how 
long it is since you heard the name?” 

“Not since I was seven years old, surely—though 
Father often mentioned it before that when he was 
telling of the Connemara giants. Of course, he never 
could say just how the giants got there—” 

“He couldn’t!” said Michael O’Brien, with some 
heat. “Well, me mother was a Connemara woman, 
though me father was from the North. An’ sure 
everyone knows that the Connemara giants were 
descended from the Grecians who lived in Ireland 
after the flood. Parthalon was the first one’s name; 
himself went to Ballyshannon, but it was his son who 
traveled as far south as Connaught.” 



260 BROKEN PATHS 

“But in school—” began Cecil. 

“Sure, what can the schools teach ye about Con¬ 
nemara?” asked Michael. “I remember— 

“Never you mind, Michael,” put in Father Pat. 
“And don’t you start one of those yarns of yours 
or we’ll be here till it’s time to set out for Silver 
Lode tomorrow morning. It’s Michael O’Brien has 
the seductive tongue—so signs by the wife he got,” 
he added, and Cecil giggled. She loved it—every 
word of it. 

“Oh, but, Father dear, don't be going until I tell 
you what happened this night,” said Michael. “It 
isn’t Irish, either—I went to the spiritualist’s.” 

“Um!” said Father Pat, looking at him with 
stern eyes. “Didn’t I tell you—” 

i __ 

“But you didn’t forbid it—no, no, you didn’t for¬ 
bid it! And sure. Father, ’twas wonderful. She 
told us some good things about what’s going on in 
the other world. An’ by-an’ J by, when she asked for 
those who would like to talk to any who had passed 
over, I stood up in me place, an’ said I’d give a 
good deal to have a word from me dear old father 
and mother who had hit the last trail many years 
agone.” 

Nora looked at him in horror. 

“Michael O’Brien, there’ll be a judgment on you 
for this,” she said. “Not letting the dead rest—” 



BROKEN PATHS 


261 


“Go ’long with you, woman!” said Michael. “Is 
it touch my dead anyone like her could be doing? 
She’ll never come next nor nigh them in this world, 
nor in the next, unless she changes her tactics. But 
by golly, so soon as I asked that question she yells 
an' stiffens out in her chair. An’ by-an’-by she 
begins to speak: ‘There are two people here beside 
me. An* one of them is called. . . Michael. He 
would speak to his son, Michael O’Brien.’ 

“ ‘That’s me,* says I.** 

“Your Reverence,” said Nora, “you hear him 
yourself. Put the heavy penance on him—” 

“Ah, woman, will ye wait? I said: ‘Michael 
O’Brien, father to me, where is me mother, Mary?’ 

“ ‘She is here beside me,’ said a faint voice, like 
a whistling whisper it was. 

“ ‘Are ye together?' 

“ ‘Always.* 

“ ‘Are ye happy?' 

“ ‘We are—and we’re waiting for you. Waiting 
for you, all the time, and shall be ready to greet you 
when you come.' 

“ ‘Good,’ says I. ‘It’s a great satisfaction to know 
it!’ An’ no sooner had I said those words than 
the lady screeched again, the lights went up, and she 
sat looking at me, her eyes like big owl’s eyes. 

“ ‘Michael O’Brien,’ she says, ‘you came here to 
scoff.’ 



262 


BROKEN PATHS 


“ T did, ma’am,’ says I. 

“ ‘You remain to pray,’ says she. 

“ ‘No, ma’am,’ says I. 

“ ‘And why not?* says she, ‘after talking to the 
father and mother that bore ye?* 

“ ‘Because, ma’am,’ says I, ‘I couldn’t have been 
talking to them, an’ it must have been someone else’s 
father an’ mother, for sorra a word of English had 
me father or mother when they were living, an’ how 
could they understand a word of it when they were 
dead?* 

“ ‘What are you talking about?* says she. 

“ ‘Why, they used the Gaelic, ma’am, an’ nevei 
another word did they speak but it, ma’am. An’ 
it’s sore I would be to lose me father an* mother 
that only spoke the decent Irish, an' get ’em back 
with the English so pat on ’em.* An* at that every¬ 
body howled an* the spiritual broke up, an* I guess 
Madame Caroline isn’t feeling so friendly toward me 
just now.” 

To describe Michael’s gestures and mimicry in 
words would be impossible. Even Nora, who was 
really shocked, was moved to mirth, and Father Pat 
shook with laughter as he stood up. ‘‘John’s eyes 
will be closed all the way down the trail,” he said. 
‘‘Let’s get away before he falls fast asleep.” He 
drew the boy toward him affectionately, and when 


BROKEN PATHS 263 

they got outside lifted him to Old Erin’s back, and 
so started for home. 

But Michael, while he and Nora were finishing 
the last of Cecil’s cake, suddenly put his hand in 
his pocket, and drew out a sheet of newspaper. “It’s 
a week old. Miss Cecilia, but there’s something inter¬ 
esting on the front page. It came packed in a case 
with some goods Startin got, an’ I helped open it up. 
An* he showed me this the first thing, an* said he 
knew you’d want to see it for yourself.” 

Cecil sat down and spread the paper out before 
her. It was dated the second day after she had left. 
The black headlines stared at her. 

AN ELOPEMENT IN HIGH LIFE 
Colin Emory and Muriel Carter Evade a 
Formal Wedding 

And farther on: 

“It is supposed that the reason for the elopement 
is the serious illness of Miss Cecil Emory, who, suf¬ 
fering with appendicitis, has been removed to a 
hospital, presumably Dr. Morton’s, though the family 
will not affirm or deny this, only saying that she is 
not yet out of danger. The double wedding was 
set for June 10th, and since it will have to be post¬ 
poned, it is presumed that Miss Muriel and Mr. 
Emory took affairs in their own hands. The fiance 
of Miss Emory, Mr. Malcolm Travers, is the only 
son of the late Malcolm Travers, Third, who can 
trace his family back to—” 


264 


BROKEN PATHS 


“To Adam,” said Cecil, under her breath. She 
was trembling with excitement. Through it all she 
saw her mother’s hand, and she realized that a post¬ 
ponement meant nothing but just that to the older 
woman. 

She continued to read: 

“The wedding, thus unavoidably delayed, will 
probably be quietly celebrated as soon as the pretty 
bride-elect recovers, or later in the Fall. Nothing 
definite can be said at this time, of course, and the 
deepest sympathy is extended to Mr. Travers and 
the Emory family. Miss Cecil’s rare blonde beauty 
will be remembered—’’ 

Cecil closed her eyes a moment. 

“That sounds,** she said, “as if they were speaking 
of me in the past tense.” 

She sat with the paper lying before her on the 
table, and her glance fell on a note farther down. 

“Miss Harriet Joyce, whose niece is Miss Joyce 
Moore, was taken severely ill last evening, and there 
is little hope of her recovery. Her entire right side 
is paralyzed. Miss Joyce’s illness recalls the mar¬ 
riage of her sister Margaret to the well-known club¬ 
man, John Moore. The marriage was a most 
unhappy one, though it endured four years, and six 
months after the decree was granted to Mrs. Moore, 
her divorced husband met with the accident out West 
which resulted in his death. Mrs. Moore and Miss 


BROKEN PATHS 


265 


Joyce had always made their home with Miss Har¬ 
riet, and since her mother’s death, twelve years ago, 
Miss Joyce has devoted herself entirely to her aunt.” 

“Maybe,” said Cecil, “that is it. Miss Harriet 
was the barrier—and if she dies—perhaps they can 
get married, then.” Almost as if her mother were 
standing at her elbow, she seemed to hear her voice. 
“Don’t be absurd, Cecil,” it said. Every inflection 
was there—the little note of sarcasm, of reproof: 
“Don’t be absurd, Cecil!” She crumpled the news¬ 
paper in her hand, and rising, went into the room 
partitioned off from the living-room of the shack. 
Here her own couch was made up, and as she put 
her head on the hard, rough pillow, she said, half- 
aloud: “No, Mother, I shall never be absurd again. 
Those days are quite gone by.” 

She had not the faintest idea that her mother was 
anywhere near, yet she could not shake off the sensa¬ 
tion of her presence. 

“I promised on Rosary Mountain,” she said, “that 
I meant to live my own life, according to that 
which I thought best for God and myself, and other 
people. I’m going to keep my word.” And so say¬ 
ing, she fell asleep. 

But Father Pat had not yet found the rest he so 
sorely needed, with but a few hours between him and 
the early moment of rising, for as he rounded the 
turn a light was shining from the window of his 
shack. 



266 


BROKEN PATHS 


“It’s another sick-call,” thought Father Pat. 
“Well, God’s holy will be done,” and he urged Old 
Erin into a trot and lifted the boy off her back. 
He threw the door open, with his hand on the mare’s 
head, waiting for the word to go. A young man 
was sitting at the table and as Father Pat came in 
he stood up. It was Basil Torrens. 

“Good glory!” said Father Pat. “Basil Torrens! 
What’s brought you here? It’s all right, Erin, old 
girl. Get into the stall with you, and I’ll take care 
of you later.” 

“We came in on the afternoon train, and we had 
to wait for that old rattletrap to get to Silver Lode—” 
began Basil Torrens. 

“We?” said Father Pat. 

“Yes—Cecil Emory’s father and mother.” Basil 
Torrens looked at him eagerly. “Miss Cecil is— 
with you?” His voice sounded strained. 

“She’s here—but not with me.” 

“And safe?” 

“Perfectly safe.” 

“Thank God,” said Basil Torrens, and he sat 
down suddenly, and Father Pat knew he must have 
been laboring under a great fear. “Her father and 
mother stayed at Startin’s—I promised I’d go back 
with word to them as soon as I found out.” 



BROKEN PATHS 


267 


“I suppose they’ve blamed you?” said Father Pat. 
‘‘Oh, don’t hesitate. Cecilia has told me all about 
it. It’s your fault, eh?” 

‘‘They haven’t said as much,” said Basil Torrens, 
‘‘but of course, that was implied.” 

“Urn,” said Father Pat. He drew a stool over 
to the table. ‘‘I’ve something to ask you now, and 
I want the truth. The girl is well, and in two months 
from now you wouldn’t know but she was Western 
born and bred, and that’s the highest compliment I 
can pay her.” He looked at him quietly an instant. 
“Basil,” he said, “ever since you showed your true 
metal, the night you got Clarke out of shaft No. 3 
down Bent River way—and God knows it was the 
work of a brave man!—I’ve respected you. And 
if you know the truth about Cecilia Mary I wish 
you’d tell it to me. Looking at the face of her— 
like a flower of beauty—I couldn’t doubt the strange 
story she told me. But is it possible there are men 
and women in this world willing to tie two lives 
together for the sake of what they call prestige—I 
mean, now, women and men like my brother Tom, 
who has decent blood in his veins? Maybe she’s only 
thought all this in a romantic way, like girls will.” 

There was keen anxiety in the priest’s tones, and 
Basil Torrens realized that no matter how he 
answered, the truth must hurt him. He hated to think 
so ill of his own brother, but he hated just as strongly 


268 


BROKEN PATHS 


the thought that Cecilia could be mistaken. He 
looked straight into Father Pat’s blue eyes—thinking 
how like they were to Cecil’s own. 

“The first time I saw your niece,’* he said, “was 
at a dinner given by the elect, and as the promised 
bride of Malcolm Travers, one of the men who is 
what he is by divine right—born to the purple. I 
saw her, too, make the sign of the Cross before she 
began her meal.’’ 

“Glory be!’’ said Father Pat. 

“They laughed at her, of course. Who wouldn’t?** 

“Did you?** 

“No—I did worse, though I did not realize it for 
some time afterward. I fell in love with her then 
and there.*’ 

“You could do a great many things more harmful 
than that.** 

“No, I could not. It is the most harmful thing that 
could have happened to me. When I left the East 
before I thought I cared for Joyce Moore. I came 
back cured, and mildly curious—and found this little 
girl in her place. And I never was so attracted 
by anyone in my whole life. Think of it! That 
was a nice position to be in, wasn’t it?*’ 

“It was—peculiar,’’ agreed Father Pat. 

“I saw enough of her then to realize that there 
was something wrong, and that she was not in love 
with Malcolm Travers. But I could not fathom it, 


BROKEN PATHS 


269 


and I never asked. I was afraid to ask. And then 
I told her about you. She wrote to you, and I shall 
never forget her joy the day she received your reply.” 

Father Pat nodded. 

“I thought no more of it—it was just an incident, 
and I never connected her folks with it. Then, a 
few days later, she called me on the telephone and 
asked me to give her my word that I would not 
mention that she had received a letter from you until 
after the tenth of June. I promised readily, think¬ 
ing the mother had found it out, and that the poor 
kid was trying to avoid a fuss.” 

He stopped suddenly and Father Pat moved impa¬ 
tiently—he was keyed up to the tale. 

“As I told her then, I was going to Washington 
next morning for my firm, and I did not expect to 
get back—in fact I meant to make it my business 
not to. I was tangled up as it was, but you can 
imagine my horror when I picked up a New York 
paper and read that Colin and Muriel (she’s told 
you about them?) had eloped and that Cecil was ill 
with appendicitis. I was so upset by this that I got 
right back to the city, and I didn’t care what they 
thought. I went to Mr. Emory’s office, and man¬ 
aged to see him. I was frightfully shocked. He 
looked like a man who had been ill a year.” 

“Um,” said Father Pat. 

“ ‘Good Lord, Mr. Emory,* I said, Tve come to 


270 BROKEN PATHS 

inquire about Miss Cecil. She’s not in danger, is 
she?* 

“Perhaps he had reached the end of his endur¬ 
ance—perhaps— Well, he broke down then. We 
closed the office door, and he told me all about it. 
The hospital idea was just a bluff. She was gone. 
She’d never meant to go through with the marriage, 
and had planned to visit a school-companion in Ver¬ 
mont. She never reached there, either. They had 
engaged private detectives—scores of them. No trace. 

“ ‘I’ve got to keep it quiet,’ he said, ‘when I want 
the whole world to help me look for her! I’d give 
every cent I own if I could put my two eyes on her 
again, safe and sound. We found her letter—telling 
us about the Ward place. Her mother and I set 
out the very next morning, determined to get her 
home again, and put a stop to such nonsense.’ ” 
Father Pat chuckled. 

“Cecilia Mary said the mother would do just that 
very thing,’’ he said. “Just that very thing.’’ 

Basil continued his tale, quite as though Father 
Pat had not spoken. 

“ ‘But she wasn’t there—my God—she wasn’t 
there! And it’s a week and nobody knows where 
she’s gone to!’ He held his head in his hands as 
if he were going crazy. 

“ ‘Mr. Emory,* I said, ‘do you mean to tell me 
that Miss Cecil did not want to marry Malcolm 
Travers?’ 




BROKEN PATHS 


271 


“ ‘No, she didn’t. She didn’t care for him—but 
then, there was no one else, and it meant a lot to 
her mother—a lot.’ He groaned. ‘I think I’ll go 
mad if I don’t get my little girl back.* 

“ ‘Perhaps she would come back if you let her 
alone,* I said. 

“ ‘Let her alone? As long as I live no one shall 
ever say one word to her or try to make her do any¬ 
thing against her will.* 

“And then. Father Pat, I told him about you.*’ 

Father Pat’s blue eyes were fastened on the 
speaker. 

“That nearly finished him. ‘God forgive me,’ he 
said. And then he begged of me to come out with 
him. Nothing would do him but that she had come 
here. He clung to the hope; telephoned to Mrs. 
Emory and implored me to see them through. I 
made what arrangements I could with my people, 
postponed a few business engagements, and started. 
I inquired at the information desk, and although the 
man remembered a girl going to Bent River, he said 
she had a little boy with her. That made us doubt¬ 
ful, and it was not until we reached Bent River 
itself that we heard anything at all definite. Then 
the old chap told us about Father Pat’s girl. And 
now I’ll go back again to Startin’s to ease their 
minds.’’ 


272 


BROKEN PATHS 


“Urn,” said Father Pat, a little grimly. “I’ll be 
easing mine, too, when I get my eyes on Tommy. 
Did you have a pleasant journey down with the two 
of them?” 

“Oh, Mr. Emory isn’t so bad—** 

“You needn’t say any more, Basil. Good-night, 
lad—it’s all hours, and poor Old Erin hasn’t had 
her supper yet. God bless ye and make ye a better 
Catholic if my little Cecilia Mary is going to return 
any part of your affection.’’ 

“There’s no hope of that. Father,’’ said Basil 
Torrens. “I don’t think she’d look at me twice— 
unless, maybe, you—’* 

“Urn,” said Father Pat. “Not I! That’s just 
what she got away from, Basil!’’ 


Chapter XVI 


THE GREAT WEST 


ECILIA was in time for confession at Silver 



Lode next morning, and received Our Lord 
in holy communion. She was filled with rapture. 
Never had more sincere prayers winged their way 
to heaven from that little chapel than were hers. 
Curious glances were bent upon her; she did not 
see them. She saw nothing, but, with bent head, 
was wrapped in the ecstasy of assisting at mass on 
the mountain-top, as it were, the Holy Sacrifice being 
offered by one in whose veins flowed her own blood. 
Her cup of bliss was so full that she had no thought 
of past or future—only the joyful present. 

Nora and Michael stayed close beside her—a few 
hurried words from Father Pat kept them there. He 
wanted to be present during whatever ordeal there 
might be for Cecilia in meeting her parents, and as 
the Emorys and Basil Torrens stayed in the rear 
of the chapel, Cecil was not aware of their presence 
until mass was over. Father Pat was still at his 
thanksgiving when she rose from her knees and with 
Nora and Michael still acting as bodyguards went 
out on to the trail. Curious glances sought them. 
There were about ten more present—among them 


27 3 



274 


BROKEN PATHS 


Mrs. Miller and her daughters, a&d they came over 
to speak to her, Michael introducing them. 

It was then that Cecilia’s eyes rested on the group 
of three. She turned quickly from the Millers and 
her face went so ghastly that Basil Torrens was at 
her side in an instant, his hand on her arm. Then 
her father kissed her and held her close, and her 
mother, taking her face between her palms, kissed 
her also. 

“Well, Cecil!” It was her father’s voice, husky, 
shaking. “Are you glad we came after you?” 

Cecil’s eyes sought her mother’s face. 

“Am I glad. Mother?” she asked. 

Her mother made a gesture of resignation. 

“Whatever you want, you shall have, Cecil.” 

“That’s a rash promise!” It was Father Pat 
this time, snowy-haired, weather-beaten, blue-eyed 
Father Pat. He stood among them—his keen glance 
seeking his brother’s wife, and then resting on his 
brother’s face questioningly. “Well, Tommy?” 

They did not even clasp hands—just stood and 
stared. The world had treated Tom Emory very 
well. He was the picture of a well-dressed, efficient, 
clever, comfortable business man. He had the air 
of prosperity. His linen was spotless, his clothing 
cut according to the latest fashion, his fingers smooth 
and white, his teeth flawless. Father Pat! Dingy 
of garb, with seams showing white through the cloth. 


BROKEN PATHS 


275 


wrinkles and lines in his face, gnarled of fingers, 
worn under the heat of his long day of sacrifice. 
But as he looked at his brother Tom there was some¬ 
thing in his air that said, “I am the O’Flaherty 1” 
and Tom Emory acknowledged it. He extended 
his hand. 

“Pat,” he said, very humbly, “will you forgive 
me all these years of neglect and carelessness, and be 
friends with me?” 

“Tommy,” said his brother, “I’m friends with 
every man, and why should I refuse friendship to my 
own? A Cecilia Mary brought us two into the 
world and another Cecilia Mary has brought us 
together from the ends of the world. Doubtless the 
little girl and you will have much to talk about, so 
I’ll be going on.” 

“Oh, no, no! No, Pat!” protested Tom Emory. 
“I need—” 

“I’ve a long ride before me, Tommy. I’ve got to 
say another mass at Deer Creek. But I’ll drive on 
to Winnereka Ranch and find out how the sick man 
is doing,” he added to Cecil. 

“When will you be back?” asked Tom Emory 
regretfully. 

“By nightfall, surely,” said Father Pat. Cecil 
watched him go, her heart in her eyes, and when 
she turned back, her mother was staring at her. This 
was little Cecil—poor little Cecil! She had taken 


276 


BROKEN PATHS 


her life into her own hands! Under all that placidity 
and meekness there was steel and fire! What if, 
some day, Cecilia had turned upon her and accused 
her of a selfishness that had ruined the lives of her 
children? 

Only a passing thought, this. Mrs. Emory might 
change, but not completely. She was the wife of 
Tom Emory, the millionaire, and her daughter-in- 
law was Muriel Carter. This one fact solaced her 
for her disappointment in Cecil. 

“It is needless to say that you caused us a great 
deal of anxiety,*’ she said. They were in the Emory’s 
room at Startin’s, and Michael, Nora and John had 
gone home along the trail. “It was very well done. 
How did you come to make your plans to go one 
place, and then set out for another of which we had 
never heard?** 

Cecil’s face was grave. 

“Oh, I didn’t plan that at all,** she said. “I really 
meant to go to Renie’s.’’ 

“We went to Miss Ward’s after you.” 

“Yes? I imagined you would—to show me the 
error of my ways.” 

Mrs. Emory straightened a little. 

“That tone, Cecil—” 

“Never mind. Mother. Is it not true?” 

The girl’s coolness startled her. 


BROKEN PATHS 


277 


“Is it not true?** she persisted. 

“Well. . .we meant to show you—’* 

“Exactly. I knew it. I knew it when I made my 
plans to go, and if I had felt then as I had always 
felt toward you, I might possibly have returned, and 
even have walked to the altar with Malcolm Travers 
and there disgraced you forever by refusing to marry 
him.’* The girl shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t 
blame you. Mother. All this has been my fault, and 
I apologize to you for it.’’ 

“You apologize to me, Cecil?** 

“Yes, for ever allowing myself to be guided against 
my own wishes in so important a matter. It was all 
wrong—but I began it.’* She looked straight into her 
mother’s eyes. “You had forgotten that the years 
had made me a woman, and I, being a woman, still 
wished to remain a child. So the fault was mine.*’ 

Her mother sat down suddenly in a creaky rocker 
at the window. 

“This is a terrible place,” she said. 

“A terrible place?” Cecil looked about her. “I 
don’t think you’ll believe how Father Pat is living— 
unless you ride down the trail and find out. No bed 
—just a couch of logs, a thin mattress, no sheets, no 
pillow, no towels. . .He built the house himself. He 
made the three pieces of furniture. He has beans, 
and coffee, and stale bread for his diet, excepting 
now—in the summer time—he has an egg or two and 


278 BROKEN PATHS 

some green vegetables. And he’s been living like 
this for twenty years. Since I’ve been here he’s been 
out on at least five sick-calls, some of them keeping 
him on horseback ten hours at a stretch!” 

Tom Emory’s face was a study. 

“And when you say anything to him he tells you 
the truth: he’s only one of many.” 

“But we can help him, at least,” said Tom Emory. 
“Somebody ought to do something—” 

Cecil smiled. 

“No,” she said, “everyone is too busy telling some 
one else to ‘be a sport,’ ‘take a chance’! There is no 
time for the Father Pats of this world.” She sighed, 
and her eyes suddenly blazed as she turned on her 
three listeners. “I never woke up,” she said, and her 
tones vibrated with feeling, “until I came here. I 
played the silly game and would probably have 
played it to the end. If Mother Philippa had ad¬ 
vised me to go on. . .1 would have gone on. . .and 
then, if I woke up, ever, it would have been too late. 
You can’t walk straight on a crooked road, she told 
me, just as you can’t give yourself to God unless you 
want God with all your heart and strength. You 
can’t promise to love and honor when there is no love 
and no honor.” 

Mrs. Emory’s eyes, large, dark, thoughtful, were 
fastened on her. Her father’s were half-shut. And 
Basil Torrens was glad, as if he read beneath the 


BROKEN PATHS 279 

surface and found something which gave him great 
joy. 

“I’m never going back to our sort of life,’’ she 
ended. 

Mrs. Emory sat up at that, with a gesture of dis¬ 
may. 

“Oh, I don’t mean I am not going home with you 
—I don’t mean that. But I’m through. I won’t go 
back to the social circle Colin and Muriel love—and 
you, too. Mother. I want you to realize that the 
girl who was a coward—and who yet had enough 
spirit to take the only way out though it was the 
coward’s way—is gone forever. In these few days 
with Father Pat, I’ve seen more kindness, devotion, 
sincerity, than I’ve ever seen since I left the con¬ 
vent.’’ 

“Now, Cecil, don’t try to be romantic,’’ said her 
mother, rather crisply. “You are exaggerating be¬ 
cause you have experienced hardship for the first 
time—’’ 

“Father!” Cecil held out her two hands. “I could 
never endure that again, never. I cannot go back to 
it. You must compel my mother—” 

“Compel,” repeated Mrs. Emory, with suddenly 
flashing eyes. But Tom Emory drew his daughter 
close to his heart. 

“Cecil is right, Elizabeth. I looked into Father 




280 


BROKEN PATHS 


Pat’s face today, and Pat, penniless, shamed me. 
We’ve been fishing in a shallow pool, my girl.” 

“Yes,” said Cecil, “with a lot of little minnows. 
Let’s get out of it, where we belong.” 

“You’re right, honey, you’re right,” said Tom 
Emory. 

There was anger on Mrs. Emory’s face, but Basil 
Torrens put his hand on her shoulder. 

“Don’t, Mrs. Emory,” he said gently. “Just think 
—if Miss Cecil had not been here! You have some¬ 
thing to be thankful for.” 

The pressure of his hand, the note of warning, con¬ 
quered her. 

“I don’t want to say anything unpleasant,” she 
said. “And Cecil, I have told you you were to do 
exactly as you pleased hereafter.” 

“And there is a rumor, since old Harriet Joyce’s 
death, that Malcolm Travers has been singeing his 
wings at another candle,” supplemented Tom Emory. 

“Oh, good! Good!” said Cecil. “Those two be¬ 
long together. He doesn’t want me, and I don’t want 
him.” 

“Cecil,” said Tom Emory, “how did you get that 
engagement ring into his pocket?” 

“I put it there myself—I met him and Miss Moore 
on the avenue the day I came out here—and slipped 
it into his coat-pocket then. It never belonged to 
me, anyhow.” 


BROKEN PATHS 


281 


“There ought to be some breakfast ready now,*’ 
said Basil Torrens. “We mustn’t expect too much 
from Startin’s, but at least it’s food. And there will 
be horses ready for us as soon as we want them.” 

“Horses?” asked Mrs. Emory, blankly. 

“Why, don’t you want to see the shack?’’ asked 
Cecil. “Now that you’ve got this far. Mother, don’t 
you want to see how Uncle Pat lives?” 

Mrs. Emory shook her head. 

“Not if I have to go on horseback to get there,” 
she said. “Besides, I’d rather lie on that bed and rest 
while I can. We’ll get out of this place tomorrow 
morning.” 

“Tomorrow morning!” Cecil echoed the words 
almost in dismay. 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Emory, firmly. “Tonight, if 
there was a train. I’ve made all inquiries. There are 
no trains going or coming on Sundays and the first 
train out leaves Bent River at ten-thirty in the morn¬ 
ing. We’re going on that.” She glanced sharply at 
the girl. “You don’t suppose we meant to visit 
here?” 

“No,” said Cecil. “No—o— But. . .Father 

hasn’t seen Uncle Pat in so long—” 

Mrs. Emory shrugged her shoulders, and they went 
down to Jim Startin’s own living-room, in which he 
had set the table for their breakfast out of deference 
to Father Pat. Presently Mrs. Emory went upstairs 


282 


BROKEN PATHS 


again, and Cecil and her father and Basil Torrens 
took the trail to Father Pat’s log cabin. They 
reached it in due time, but Cecilia’s face was shad¬ 
owed, and finally, when Michael and Nora were en¬ 
tertaining Father Pat’s brother—and when did two 
Connemara men ever get together without finding 
plenty to talk about?—Cecil and Basil Torrens went 
on up to the top of the crag which the girl had named 
Rosary Mountain. 

“You do not look very cheerful, Miss Cecil,*’ said 
Basil Torrens. 

“No,” said Cecil, “and I’m not. I don’t want to 
go home tomorrow.” 

“But,” said Basil Torrens, “you know your mother 

can’t stay at Startin’s—the accommodations there 
»» 

are— 

“But I got used to Father Pat’s place—and what 
are the accommodations there? Besides, Father hasn’t 
seen his own brother for so long, and I’m so anxious 
that they should talk over—everything. You know 
what money means to Father Pat out here.” 

“He got along without it so far,” said Basil Tor¬ 
rens, “and I don’t know if he’d thank you for it.” 

Cecil put her hand over his suddenly. 

“I must be grateful to you for all that I have 
learned,” she said. “You brought Father Pat to 
me—you gave me the refuge that saved me. I am 



BROKEN PATHS 283 

really changed. If you only knew how silly I was— 
before this. But now I am a woman.” 

He looked at her, and at the expression on his face 
her glance fell. 

“Cecil,” he said, “when I saw you last I had no 
right to speak to you. I have the right now. Will 
you listen?” 

She nodded, her breath coming more quickly. 

“My future life lies for the most part out here,” 
he said. “I’ve cast my lot with the West. My work 
is here—oh, not at Silver Lode, exactly—but some¬ 
times within easy reach of it. Big things are being 
planned for the future—and Cecil—is it possible— 
dare I hope—that you will share them with me?” 

“But I go home tomorrow,” she said. 

“I have to go as well. I left all ends loose to 
come out here in search of you. Cecil, I should never 
have given up the search—never. We shall go home 
tomorrow—together. And we shall come back- 
together.” 

Cecil looked down at the hands that held her own. 

“You might—just by accident, perhaps?—tell me 
you rather like me?”... 

It was four o’clock when Father Pat reached home, 
but he was not alone. The owner of Winnereka 
Ranch came with him, and when Cecilia saw him 
she sprang to meet him, with a spontaneous joy she 
had not shown her father. Senator Hayden held her 
close, and his eyes were misty. 





284 


BROKEN PATHS 


“Well, Cecil, you did it after all, didn’t you? 
But why didn’t you let me know that day and we 
could have eloped together? To think of you find¬ 
ing your way out here, dear child, almost within a 
stone’s throw of me, and I not to know it” 

He greeted Tom Emory jovially. 

“Couldn’t you put up at Winnereka for a short 
while,” he asked, “you and Elizabeth?” 

“I’m afraid she’s—rather set her mind on going 
tomorrow,” said Tom Emory. “And Torrens must 

• f 

go. 

“Well, then,” said Father Pat, cheerfully, “we’ll 
make the best of what we’ve got.” 

And so the conversation began. Bit by bit, Tom 
Emory went back over the years—his trials, his am¬ 
bitions, his successes—in which recital Senator Hay¬ 
den could take an active part. And then Father Pat 
told of his struggles after Tom had emigrated, his 
effort to continue his studies, the death of his brothers 
and sister, one by one, and then the mother; how 
word had come of Tom’s accidental death in the rail¬ 
road yards, (“I was hurt,” said Tom, “and I never 
went back there.”) then of his ordination and of his 
coming to the United States, being loaned to the 
Bishop for work in Nevada, and his subsequent adop¬ 
tion into the diocese. And after that the years of 
service spent among “the best people in the world, 
God bless them—always willing to share their last 
bite with you.” And then the overwhelming surprise 


BROKEN PATHS 285 

of Cecil's letter—and her just as overwhelming 
arrival. 

“Nor did she come without purpose,* * said Father 
Pat. “And you’ll believe that when I tell you some¬ 
thing more. This Joyce Moore you speak about— 
I’m interested in her.” 

Senator Hayden moved uneasily—opened his lips 
to speak, shut them again. 

“What was her aunt’s name?’* 

“Her aunt’s name was Harriet Joyce. She died 
recently.’* 

“Um. Is that all you know about her?” 

Tom Emory looked puzzled. Senator Hayden 
placed his hand on the priest’s arm. 

“I know Jack Bidwell’s right name,’* he said. 

“Yes, poor fellow. He’s dead and buried.’* 

“Dead and buried!’* Senator Hayden looked 
startled. 

“Yes—and he was John Moore—Joyce Moore’s 
father. And that little boy John, out there playing 
with my Old Erin, is the son of his second wife.’’ 

They stared at him. 

“That’s a strange thing,’* said Basil Torrens. 
“How did you find it out?*’ 

“By the papers Jack Bidwell left when he made 
me guardian of his boy.** 

“Wait,** said Senator Hayden. “I think I can 


286 


BROKEN PATHS 


make things a little clearer and show you why I was 
so interested in Joyce and Malcolm. In the first place 
Harriet Joyce’s lover jilted her for another woman, 
and though it happened when she was a girl of eigh¬ 
teen, her hatred of men thereafter amounted to a 
mania. Her sister Margaret, who was, by their 
father’s will, made almost dependent on Harriet, 
married in defiance of her, and she never stopped 
bickering, fault-finding, persecuting, until she suc¬ 
ceeded in parting husband and wife. John Moore, 
most unfortunately, had a loose streak in him, and he 
went off with all Miss Harriet’s jewels and a lot of 
negotiable paper that he was able to turn into cash be¬ 
fore the loss was discovered—thirty thousand dollars 
would hardly cover the theft. Harriet had him 
shadowed by detectives and brought back to her. 
Then on condition that he make a statement confess¬ 
ing his crime and sign it, she let him go free. 

“Unfortunately, she held this confession as a club 
over poor Margaret’s head. Margaret always blamed 
herself for John’s misdoing, and when she died she 
made Joyce swear to protect her father whenever or 
wherever possible. There you have it. Joyce was an 
innocent victim, and the reason she was a slave to 
that old woman was because she had threatened, in 
event of Joyce’s rebellion or leaving her, to use this 
confession, bring John Moore back to stand the pen¬ 
alty and send him to prison. It was she who also 
parted Joyce and Malcolm. The moment a man 


BROKEN PATHS 287 

looked at the girl this envenomed old creature went 
crazy.* * 

There were tears in Cecil’s eyes. 

“Now I know why I always liked her,” she said. 

“With her aunt’s death she will probably be a 
wealthy as well as a free woman.” 

“That means,” said Tom Emory, “since little John 
is her brother, that you’ll have to be coming East to 
settle affairs, Pat.” 

“Faith, then,” said Father Pat, with a twinkle in 
his eye, “the papers are here, sound and safe, and 
they have only to do with my boy out there. If the 
father wanted Joyce Moore’s finger in it he would 
have said so, and if there’s any settling to be done 
Miss Moore will come West to do it. I wouldn’t 
leave this little place of mine, and take any chance 
of not being here when a soul wants me for aught 
like that, Tom. Not unless the Bishop orders me out, 
and I don’t think he will. Here I am and here I’ll 
stay—and ye’re all welcome to come and stay, too. 
But I’m not going—no, not even for an hour.” 

“Let Malcolm and Joyce make it on their wedding 
trip,” said Cecil. “I’ll tell her so-—when I go back. 

f f 

• • • 

Mrs. Emory declined to visit Senator Hayden’s 
ranch—although at the urgent solicitation of both 
Senator Hayden and Father Pat she consented to 
allow Cecilia to do so, adding, a little ungraciously, 
perhaps, that Cecilia would go anyhow, if she wanted 


288 


BROKEN PATHS 


to very badly. Cecilia was in no hurry to leave Father 
Pat. Her father and mother and her now avowed 
lover left on the ten-thirty train, but Cecil returned to 
the shack and together they walked to the cliff, 
and there Cecil told her uncle what she had named it. 

“You’ve been an angel of light, Cecilia Mary,” 
said Father Pat gently. “Let’s look long at the sun¬ 
set, my dear. You won’t see another like it—not 
even at Winnereka.” 

“I don’t expect to, ever,** she said, soberly. 

“Sometimes, little child with my mother’s eyes, 
you’ll think of me and pray for me ? And maybe. . . 
a couple of years from now—you’ll come back?** 

She looked up mischievously. 

“Basil has taken a big contract for this part of 
the country,’’ she said, “and—I’m thinking of tak¬ 
ing him and the contract, too. Father Pat—just to 
be near you.’* 

“Glory be!’’ said Father Pat. “Well,” he sighed, 
“if you’d been living when Napoleon crossed the Alps 
he’d have trotted back home in a hurry. When. . . 
did you say. . .Cecil?” 

She looked at him innocently. 

“I didn’t say. Father Pat. I left that for Basil to 
decide.” 

“Um,” said Father Pat. “And may I ask what 
you have decided Basil shall decide?” 

But Cecilia only laughed. 


\ 































































































































































































